A Glass of Wine?
by A.R.H. Writer
Summary: A Necromancer is invited for a glass of wine, and a plot to unravel Nirn is set afoot. (Warning, graphic imagery of death in chapter 12, with extreme descriptions of gore throughout.)
1. Chapter 1: The Lord's Return

_So This is a fun idea I had about skyrim involving both the Hearthfire DLC and the Dawnguard DLC. I always wondered what that necromancer was up to down by Lakeview Manor, and now we know! :)_

* * *

 _ **~Sundas, 24'th of evening star, North Eastern Woodlands of Falkreath Hold~**_

Deep within the woods, in the shadow of a grand mountain at dusk, stood a mage. She was a proud Nord; her blonde hair tied in braids, fierce blue eyes, and a determined steely glare. She was dressed head to toe in dark robes, the color of the void under charge by Sithis, but betraying her identity with a green skull emblazoned on the front of her tunic, indicating her pride in her studies of the Necromatic arts.

While she was indeed standing, she was more or less hunched over, deep in study over a conjuration book; _Liminal Bridges_ , furiously scanning the pages for anything that could aid her in her spell.

"Damn it!" Hjilde growled in frustration, slamming the book shut and glaring down at the bones scattered around the alter. Her project would never be finished at this pace.

She had all that she could possibly need, all except a single shin. Once she had that, she would have a full skeleton. But why stop there? If she could successful stitch together human flesh over the bones, and a heart... and infuse it with enough magic, she could create life! Soon there would be books dedicated to her, songs sung in her honor, and all those fools at the college would moan their devotion to her, Hjilde, the bringer of life!

Her daydreams were interrupted by a crunch in the surrounding foliage. Drawing her dagger, and readying a spell of frostbite in her left hand, she called out in a stern tone.

"Who's there?"

"Sorry, that would be me! Please sheath your weapon, I don't want to hurt you. I just wish to talk to you." A voice replied.

It was male, and had the slight husky drawl of a Dunmer. Hjilde frowned, looking to her creation. _Could an Elf benefit her work in any way?_

Walking proudly from the foliage stepped a tall, and relatively handsome Dark Elf. He was dressed in some form of robes, but the craftsmanship was unrecognizable to anything worn by any mage she had ever seen. It was almost an armor, with dark Pauldrons and a black chest-piece like a chitin, but with distinct flowing maroon fabric flaring at the waist and wrists, and manifesting itself in a shoulder cape. His hands were gloved in dark gauntlets made of black leather, the nails coming to harsh points that glinted like silver in the candlelight of the alter, while his feet were simply covered in black boots. His eyes... There was something... unusual about them, but she could not put her finger on it, and thus discarded any notion of irregularity. Surprisingly, his hip bore no weapon, where such a lordly figure would at least have an axe or sword on his belt, if not a staff of a thousand gemstones and fitted with gold, he was unarmed.

This was a dangerous place to be unarmed.

"I am sorry to intrude on your studies, but I am Dominus Cruor, the new Thane of Falkreath Hold," He began. Hjilde stiffened. _Had she been so careless that the idiot Jarl learned of her presence already?_ She was deep in the woods, and had covered her tracks well with the wolf den nearby.

"I have recently built my homestead not to far from here, and I wanted to ask if you would like to come over for a glass of wine? My wife and I just finished constructing it, and I would be happy to have a learned individual in attendance." Dominus added, flashing a surprisingly charming smile. Hjilde considered the offer. A warm meal, and a glass of wine. By Yismir, when had she last had wine? Not to mention a warm meal! Besides, he seemed harmless, if a bit naive.

Hjilde smiled back to the Dark Elf.

"I would love to attend. When would you like me to arrive?"

"Oh, a little past sundown; I wouldn't want to disrupt your work. Oh, and if I may," He approached, rummaging through a satchel he had attached to his back. From the satchel, and in a disturbingly calm fashion, he removed a bloodstained shinbone and laid it on the alter.

"I noticed your skeleton was incomplete." He said simply, before leisurely strolling off back the way he came.

* * *

Hjilde marched through the thicket not an hour later, following the path the mer had carved in the plant life on his way to her. As she rounded a bend, where the plants began to clear, a great manor stood. Her eyes widened; how had this been built so quickly, and without her noticing! if she took twenty paces back from her alter, she would have seen it clear as day. As soon as she approached the fence to the manor's animal pens; the cow sleeping soundly and the trio of hens resting with their heads under their wings, the ring of a sword being unsheathed rang through the night. A Redguard woman charged from the other side of the open space, unseen in the shadows. She was dressed in heavy steel armor, and garbed in the traditional Redguard hood.

"Who are you?" She barked, pointing her curved scimitar at the Nord.

"Rayya! Stand down girl, I invited her!" A familiar voice bellowed.

Hjilde looked to her left, and saw Dominus standing on the porch of the grand manor.

"My apologies for my mistake, Master. I will return to my post." Rayya said, inclining her head in a bow with her fist over her heart. As Hjilde watched her leave, a thought crossed her mind, a small flicker; _Wouldn't a guard, or housecarl, refer to their Thane as 'my Thane'? And not as 'Master'?_

She ascended the steps, and joined the Dunmer, she was surprised to see a second figure standing calmly beside him. A Nord woman, fair of complexion and slender of body, with bright red hair the color of blood. She wore a simple dress, but her posture and facial expression indicated that she was no mere commoner or servant girl; She was his wife, if the ring on her finger was any indication.

"Welcome to Lakeview Manor! I didn't catch your name?" Dominious said warmly, joining hands with his wife and sitting opposite Hjilde at the table on the patio.

"Delphine. Delphine Ice-Bloom." Hjilde replied. She was no fool; she was a necromancer and had seven deaths to her name. She would not allow an elf with seemingly more money then sense, if the house, the guard, and the woman on his arm was any indication, turn her in. She doubted he had met the barkeep Delphine in riverwood, the last settlement she had visited before beginning her project. She had no issue using her surname; both of her parents were dead and her brother died a year ago with the stormcloaks.

"Ah, Delphine. I like that name. Now, I have several different types of wine, which would you like?" He asked, standing and walking towards a small table, where a collection of dark bottles stood in a row next to a trio of silver goblets.

"I'm not sure... I haven't drank wine in quite some time. Perhaps some alto if you have any?"

"Certainly! I have a bottle right here. After you have spiked your pallet, I have some fine cheeses you should try, not to mention enough wine and ale to drown a horker!"

Hjilde laughed. A hardy and true laugh; it had been too long since she had done that. Not laughed, she laughed all the time reading her favorite line in 'A Hypothetical Betrayal'. No, it had been far to long since she had used magic to drown Horkers. It was so entertaining! The blubber convulsing, the flippers waving pathetically as it tries to swim to the surface, but is being held in place, then the fat rippling as it-

"Delphine? Delphine? Did you hear me? I asked if you would like the Ash-Yam stew, or the Venison Roast?"

Hjilde snapped out of her sociopathic fantasy and looked up to her host.

"Ah... I'll have the... stew." She said, her thoughts muddled slightly. By the nine, she was not used to drinking.

"I'll have my steward prepare it. I'll be back in just a moment." He said, rising to his feet and entering the house.

A brief silence elapsed between the Necromancer and the Thane's wife, until Hjilde broke the silence.

"So, what is it like? Living here in all the finery of a Jarl's Thane?"

"It certainly has its perks! But it can get pretty dull out here. Thankfully my business associates are constantly around in order to keep the coin trickling into our coffers."

"Business associates? What do you do?"

"I mostly do business with the Khajit trading caravans, and dealing in Sleeping Tree Sap on the side."

Hjilde stiffened. She cautiously took a sip of her third glass of wine, the once fruity aftertaste now tasting like sewer water. She was not in the home of a naive Thane and his wife; he was in the house of a dangerous couple. A Thane, a man of incredible political power in the hold and possessing the ability to order the Hold's guards around, and with the wealth to bribe them if his orders went unheeded, and this... woman, this kingpin of a trading circuit, and a drug dealer to boot. The Overworld and the Underworld bound in unholy matrimony, and she was sitting right in the den of it, drinking their wine and sharing a meal with them!

"Are you alright Delphine? You look ever so pale." the woman said, her eyes wide in concern. Now that Hjilde noticed, she too had something off about her eyes, something... predatory.

"Ysolda dear! Could you open the door, my hands are full." the muffled voice of the Thane said behind the door.

"Certainly, my love." She said in a raised voice, standing up and walking slowly towards the door.

 _Now's my chance_ Hjilde thought. _Quickly and quietly stand up, and run. Run to Felglow keep, or even to back to the College, by Oblivion she would not be caught in this skeever trap!_

As she pressed her hands on the table, eyeing Ysolda's back all the while, she stood slowly, before a familiar voice boomed behind her, causing her to sit back down with a disillusioned slump.

"I thought I smelled Alto Wine, might I have a glass, my Thane?" Reyya asked, climbing the steps to join the trio at the balcony.

"Certainly, housecarl! It's getting late anyways, and no bandits would seek to raid us at this time of night. Have a bottle and rest easy tonight lass." The Dunmer noble said cheerily, grasping a black pot in both hands, gloved to protect his flesh against the steaming contents. He set the pot down in front of the Nord Necromancer, before placing a spoon before her.

"It's quite hot, so mind yourself." He said, sitting back down across from the Nord, folding his hands patiently on the table, like a sabercat lying in wait.

* * *

Two bottles of Alto wine and four tankards of mead later, and Hjilde's tongue was loosened significantly to the pair's questions. The couple's tongues were as sharp as razors and the questions surprisingly precise.

"...After the college kicked me out, I say to meself, 'Hjilde, don't listen to those milk drinkers. Go out and continue your studies on your own!'" she slurred, waving her tankard in the air and sloshing half of it's contents onto the ground.

Dominus smiled widely, exhaling slightly at the wasted drink, but with very little care.

"Goodness, even Lord Sanguine would loose to your skills of drinking!" Ysolda said, her eyes wide with incredulous shock.

"There's enough alcohol in your blood to make a Vampire drunk." Dominus chuckled softly, locking eyes with Hjilde.

Though she was in a drunken stupor, she detected through the haze of her drink the tension in the air. The Dunmer puckered his pips, and a small, opaque sphere, akin to a spell of Calm from the illusion school, lightly sank into her chest.

"Hey! What're you..." Hjilde began, but she broke off. She felt remarkably... calm? No, at peace. There was no issue with his spell; after all with his astute questions on the nature of her work, why wouldn't he be a mage? Besides, there was nothing wrong with the way he was gripping her head, or the teeth sinking into her neck.

"Ah, dinner's started! I wondered when we were beginning." An young woman crept from the house. She was incredibly pale, and with a head of hair as black as night. She wore an armored corset of the same make and style that the Dunmer Thane was swathed in.

"Apologies, Serana. I couldn't resist taking the first bite. Reyya? I order you to stand on hold. I wasn't jesting when I said we could get drunk off this one's blood; she's all but drunk us of house and home." The Dark Elf said, wiping his bloodstained lips on his sleeve, before moving over and allowing Ysolda a drink of the Necromancer's blood. After all; why stop drinking while there is still wine in the bottle.

* * *

 _So this is a kinda interesting idea of what I would do if I were a sadistic vampire in the game, kinda just flex my power. I may make this into a full story of a vampire dragonborn trying to quietly take over skyrim, if this gets enough views then I'll post a second chapter._

 _And now, a small note on my account:_

 _-I will be updating The General SOON! I am sorry for being so late in posting things but I have hit some writers block and life catching up with me._


	2. Chapter 2: The Lord's Plot

Decided to continue this. I am going to continue The General as well, but I have been a little tied up at the moment. -Cloaked Writer

* * *

 _ **~Fredas, 12th of Mid Year, Castle Volkihar**_ ** _Cathedral, 4E 202~_**

"No... Serena... your own father..." Harkon gasped, his eternal life coming to a closure as his skin melted to ash, his blood soaked skeleton of the Vampire Lord standing for a moment, before collapsing into crimson dust.

Dominus let out an exhausted sigh of relief, falling to one knee as Auriel's Bow slipped from his fingers to clatter upon the weathered flags.

He had done it. Harkon was gone.

The grand double doors crept open as the Dunmer chamberlain Garan Meriethi entered cautiously, surveying the scene of the battleground in the chapel, before addressing the exhausted vampires.

"Lord Harkon defeated. I never imagined I'd see the day. My congratulations on defeating Harkon. Clearly, you are the superior vampire. You are the new Master; we bow to your power. A power which, I note, includes Auriel's Bow."

He turned to Serana, his face falling.

"My lady, you have my deepest sympathies. I am sure this was not easy for you."

She sighed slightly, but a look of stony determination asserted itself on her face, and the brief showing of emotion was unknowable.

"He was out of control Garan. It had to be done. I'm not happy about this. He... he was still my father. But I suppose my father really died a long time ago. This was just the end of something else."

"Of course my dear. All will be well now."

Garan turned, his mouth opened to once again congratulate his lord on vanquishing his predecessor, but stopped.

Dominus stood before Harkon's blood red ashes. His back was to the pair of vampires, but there was a certain... tension; an electricity in the air that signified that something was... out of place. Garan and Serana looked tentatively towards one another, before the unmistakable sound of a blade dragging in the weathered flags sounded through the shrine.

Dominus strode forward towards Serana, Harkon's sword laying in the palms of his outstretched hands as the crimson dust flowed around him like birds gliding on the torrents of a storm. He offered it to Serana, inclining his head slightly.

"You are the Heir to your house now, Serana. While I may have bested Harkon in combat, you deserve to lead us." He said quietly.

Garan was stunned, looking back and forth between the two Vampires. Serana's eyes widened, and nothing could be heard in the shrine but the whistling of the wind through the broken windows.

Then Serana closed the gap.

She pressed her hands against Dominus's, and pushed the blade back to him.

"I am not a leader, nor am I strong enough to rule, even with the both of you at my side. You should be the one to lead us." She said tepidly.

Dominus said nothing, his eyes lowering to the blade once more, this time his fingers enclosing around the blade and handle, as he closed his amber eyes.

* * *

 _ **~One year later, Sundas, 31st of Evening Star, Castle Volkahar, 4E 203~**_

Garan Merethi sat in his Lord's chambers at his master's desk, surrounded by several dozen letters and missives; orders from his master, who was abroad in Morrowind. He was not, however, re-reading his Lord's orders or ensuring that they were to be dictated with due haste; instead, his hands were shaking with surprise and excitement as he read the last message sent to him by the Lord of the Castle.

 ** _I am returning to the castle; and I have a great deal to discuss. Inform the court of my return. I will stop by the manor to visit my family and entertain some guests, but I will be at court within a week._**

 ** _Dominus_**

No sooner had he finished reading the letter for umpteenth time that day, his sensitive hearing heard the sound of the Great doors of the castle opening, and the booming barks of Gamur and CuSith as they likely bounded to greet their master with their drool. Garan stood, making for the askew door, and was delighted to see his master striding towards him, garbed in his Royal Vampire robes, with the dark hood of a mage protecting his head from the sun.

"Welcome back, my Lord. I trust your visit to Solstheim was pleasant? I recall a great picturesque view of the frozen lakes and the snow bitten mountains, goodness that brings back memories" the elder vampire said, reminiscing slightly as his mortal life. He was surprised, however, when his Lord shook his head in a chuckle.

"It was anything but, I'm afraid. The eruption of red mountain leveled the entire southern half of the island."

"Raven rock? Fort Frostmoth? Kolbjorn Hall?"

"All of it caked in ash and fire. What wasn't burned to cinders is now overgrown woodland. You can hardly see the sun now, Garan; either the ash clouds block it out, or the snow does.

"I am... surprised. Solstheim always seemed to be a strong little island; I am saddened to see the old legacy of that mortal place broken, even if it is a den of the Herd." Garan said, slightly saddened for the mortal stronghold.

Dominus then raised his head, his sadness gone, replaced with the dull seriousness that had always been a staple of his true identity; not the chipper count that he used to lure prey, but a rather blunt and tired Elf who was eager to get the task at hand finished, with the exception of a little sidetracking.

"I did not come to tell you about my sorrows in the mortal lands, I'm afraid. I am here to discuss a few important issues, and my own _plot_."

Garan raised his eyebrows slightly at the revelation, but lowered them quickly.

"My lord, I am generally not involved in the politics of the court..." he began, but he was cut off by his Master.

"And that is why I am discussing these things with you. You are the one of the few within this court I can trust with this information. There are others, of course. Feran, who seeks to discover his art of potion making and staying out of the prying eyes. Ronthil and Rargal, the former a chipper fellow, and the latter a gruff yet loyal beast; and our maidens of death, Serana, Hestla and Fura. I see them as being the future of this court." The Dumner said to his kin.

"What of Vingalmo, and Ortholf?"

Domunis shook his head, as if the names of the advisers disturbed him.

"I don't know what on nirn to do to them. I must preserve what was left of the hierarchy of this court, and they seem to have some sort of... purpose, to this court. While they may have served my predecessor, I am unsure how they will serve me now, but more on that later. I can find some creative way to have them perish if they become a nuisance; but we aren't here to discuss executions we are here to discuss court matters." Dominus said. Garan chuckled at the younger Vampire, his crimson eyes veiled by his lids.

"My lord, murder _is_ a court matter!" He said with a chuckle.

Unfazed, Dominus stood, and approached one of the many bookshelves in the room, and removed a crimson tome from one of the highest shelves he could reach. After exhaling a powerful breath to disperse the dust on the old book, he laid it down before Garan.

"Immortal Blood. Have you read it?"

"A few times, but not recently. Might I ask why, my Lord?"

"Because this is not just a story of fiction, but in truth, it is fact."

Garan's eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I'm saying that Movarth Piquine was a real man, and he was a legendary vampire slayer, who became corrupted and turned into a vampire."

The Dunmer Chamberlain's mouth opened slightly, but he closed it quickly.

"I am... surprised, my Lord. And... how do you know this?"

"Because I met him."

"You _what?_ "

Dominus stood and began to pace, causing Garan to quickly and masterfully hide his smirk. He suspected that the overall pressure and responsibility of the court, in addition to having the blood of a vampire pumping through your veins, would cause anyone to pace out of stress or for passive thought.

"When I was mortal, I made a point to tour all of the provinces and do what I could to win favor within the political bodies of Skyrim."

This time, Garan allowed a friendly smile to appear on his face.

"So, even before you joined the court, you were attempting to be a political cutthroat?"

Dominus rolled his eyes.

"More like... I was a thief and assassin who desired to have political backing in the holds he visited. But back to your original question, I was in Morthal, playing detective, spy, and investigator to Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone. It was some sort of murder; man's house burns to cinders with family inside, and he pledges himself to a woman while the flame is still dying. Everyone smelled foul play, but they were too superstitious to delve deeper. But I was not, and discovered a rather ingenious plot, on the behalf of Piquine."

He stopped pacing and turned towards Garan, leaning on the table.

"He had a pair of Vampires, living inside the town, and enthralling the guards, in order to seize the entirety of the settlement."

There was a small pause, before Garan spoke.

"That is... rather bold, and as you said, ingenious. I presume, as you are currently the Thane of Hjaalmarch and lived to tell me this tale, that Movarth's plan failed?"

"How astute of you." Dominus said dryly, but with the small ghost of a smile on his face.

"The one thing that intrigued me was his plan, one that I feel is incredibly promising, and one I will certainly archive. I will tell you more, but the moon is up now, and I believe it is time for dinner, and for my first royal proclamation.

* * *

The meal was unremarkable; the regular blood, drunk from bloodstained silver goblets.

However, the court was silent, and a tension was in the air.

It had been close to a year since anyone had last seen Lord Dominus Volkihar, and everyone seemed a little on edge. This, of course, amused Garan to no end; and after long ago befriending his master, he knew that he was silently and internally smiling at the fear that the less loyal of the court's members were suffering.

With a sudden yet casual movement, Dominus stet down his glass with a light metallic ring, and stood.

"Scions of the night! Hear my words! A new era has arisen for the Volkihar Clan, and we will be it's herald. Go forth into the wilderness, and send word to all of the feral broods and wild covens that I have summoned their masters to this court. Look to caverns, to the ancient ruins, and to abandoned houses or villages, and give them my message, either with a sharpened tongue or a sharpened blade. Go now, and carry out this task, one and all. This is my command!"

All rose, acknowledging their lords request; some draining thier cups, others immediately preparing to go forth and carry out their lords wishes. Garan tested the blade of his Elven war-axe, when he felt a light hand on his shoulder.

"You are not permitted to go, Garan. I have need of you here." Dominus said calmly, before turning to the side and bellowing across the room of the court.

"Ortholf! Vingalmo! You are to stay behind as well, but only for a while; I have matters to discuss with the both of you."

* * *

 _Thats the end of this instalment! I will be continuing for a few more chapters, and I may start doing little one shots between chapters for just little snippets of story. Also, I know I know, its Dec. 23 2017, and I haven't done another instalment of The General. I am going to get on that, I have been a bit busy and havent had the time to watch episodes of the clone wars over and over again until I have memorized the dialogue, but I will finish that story come hell or high water. Any-who, more vampire stuff will be coming; ive been in a vampire mood for a bit._

 _(Also to the one comment saying this person needed to be a nord: 1) Dunmer have an in-game 50% resistance to fire damage, and 2) lore-wise, the philosophy of the Volkihar court of Might-Makes-Right fits well with the Dunmer ways of organizing themselves, especially the Telvanni, whom we meet in-game, and house Dres, which Garan and Dominus both belong to. Just food for thought. Anyways, adios. -Cloaked Writer._


	3. Chapter 3: The Lord's Persuasion

Third Installment. Also: I WILL BE CONTINUING THE CLONE WARS STORY I PROMISE! I have a week of relaxation now so I should power through some stories.

* * *

 _ **~Morndas, 1st of Morning Star, Castle Volkihar, Coast of Skyrim, 4E 203~**_

Vingalmo and Ortholf stood awkwardly in the empty dining hall, the familiar sounds of slurping and guttural snarls of the their kin drinking mouthful after mouthful of steaming blood having vanished on The Lord's Command, and thus left the building eerily… quiet.

"They have been in there for some time." Vingalmo remarked, turning his head to glare into the shadows of the dark hallway leading to the Shrine, where Garan and Lord Dominus spoke in seclusion.

"I never understood why those two got along so well. I mean, I get that their the same kind and all, but I'd have expected him to fall in with one of us." Ortholf remarked

Vingalmo smirked, bringing his gaze back to the Nord Vampire.

"How astute of you, Ortholf. I'd have thought all that would have gone over you head…"

"Watch your tongue, Elf, else I cut it off."

"Come now, I said this the last time we dueled with our wits…"

The childish argument was silenced by the slow clicking of boots upon the stone floor of the castle corridor. Garan emerged from the darkness, a passive expression on his face.

"Vingalmo! Lord Dominus wishes to speak to you. Best not keep him waiting."

Vingalmo flashed a mocking smile towards his Nord counterpart, before departing past Garan and into the Shrine.

Dominus stood facing the shrine, absentmindedly taking handfuls of crimson ash and letting it fall through his fingers onto the ground. A relaxing pastime, and a sobering one; a reminder that no matter the rank or wealth of a Lord, one misstep can cause his house to collapse.

He heard the groan of the great oaken door open, as Vingalmo approached.

"You wished to see me, my Lord?"

Dominus shook his hand, letting the ash fall in a mist, and letting his hand rest on the axe sitting on his hip.

"I did. I have some inquiries into the sincerity of your work."

"My Lord, I don't know what you-"

"Spare me your pitiful excuses. You have stalled in your reports of continuation of Harkon's bloodline, or of those able to receive the gift. This is unacceptable and is viewed by me as an insult of the highest order."

The Dunmer marched forward, his cape billowing behind him menacingly as the Lord of the Court seemed to glide towards the High Elven Vampire. Although he was a head shorter, he managed to grip the collar of Vingalmo's robes and pull him down to eye level.

"I will drain whatever life you have in this pale, tapered body of yours and leave you as ash to decorate this room."

Vingalmo began to sweat, his eyes widening in terror, as he felt the fangs brush his neck…

Then he stopped.

"Or," Dominus said, casting the Altmer aside and leering over the crumpled Mer's form.

"You will provide to me an itemized list of every mortal on Tamriel who can withstand the gift at once."

He kneeled down and then spoke in a light whisper, his voice as soft and decadent as Prince Mephala and as rousing as Prince Boethiah.

"If you do as I command, there is a place for you as a leading member of this court. Not ceremonial power as an 'advisory'. No, I think it is high time my court has set up an intelligence network, and I feel that gifting me your knowledge would be most beneficial for you to rise to that station. Don't you agree?"

* * *

 _Garan entered the Shrine with a puzzled look on his face._

 _"Forgive my sudden request, brother, but I needed to speak to you in private, and at least let you in on my plots and schemes." Dominus said._

 _"During tonight's meal, I reasoned now I was to proceed with those two. To begin, Vingalmo._

 _"He is arrogant and brash, with a characteristically snobbish attitude of the Altmer. But he has a natural gravitation towards information, wisdom, and knowledge. To that end, I have decided to appoint him head of a new form of… Well, calling it a Guild is giving it a lot of credit. A sub-portion of the Court, specializing in espionage and assassination. His former allegiance to the Thalmor, and his knowledge of their workings will also prove useful to my plans."_

 _He turned to Garan, his eyes wide with excitement, but he quickly composed himself and spoke in a calm, collected tone._

 _"Do you see any flaws in this plan? If there are any that would severely weaken this suggestion to the core, then I will send him out to alert the Thin-Bloods as I did with all the others."_

 _Garan puzzled a moment, stroking his crimson beard, before speaking._

 _"The first and most obvious issue, Master, is his loyalty. He covets the throne, and if placed at the head of a group of underlings, isn't it possible that he would send them to slay you, as he did with Salonia Caelia?"_

 _"A perfectly valid argument, old friend. However, I have a pool of killers who would sooner slit their own throats then rebel against me, even under the temptation of power." Dominus said, waving his hand dismissively. Garan cleared his throat, and continued._

 _"My second concern is that of the Dark Brotherhood. If they were to catch wind of a new assassin Guild, even if it is just a band of Vampire cut-throats, they would likely take action-"_

 _"Alas, this is unlikely, as my pool of killers is the Dark Brotherhood."_

 _Garan's mouth stood agape with surprise, his fangs glinting in the low light, causing Dominus to chuckle slightly._

 _"I pursued a life of Honor and Wisdom, until the lust for power led to me joining a great many guilds and Cults that do a great deal of immoral deeds for the sake of greater wealth and power. As Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, and Master of the Thieves Guild, I am under complete and utter control of the Mortal's night. We can surround Vingalmo with beings that he thinks are under his thumb, while in actuality, they are my pawns and my pawns alone."_

 _Dominus then shrugged._

 _"As for the Dark Brotherhood… well, they served their purpose for a time. But while exploring the dark and dusty tomes of forgotten histories, I heard tale of an organization; The Crimson Scars. A Dark Brotherhood splinter-faction that existed some time in the… Third era, if I am not mistaken; yet comprised solely of Vampires. It's high time to establish a new line of Scars under the command and within the sway of the Volkihar Court._

* * *

Vingalmo left the room with the cold remnant of sweat on his brow. He hurried to the dining hall, where Garan and Orthjolf were in the middle of an argument that seemed to be a few words and an insult away from coming into a confrontation.

"Ortholf! Our Lord needs to speak with you." He said hurriedly, before rushing into the library to finish his research.

Ortholf climbed the stairs to see the door ajar, while a familiar noise emitted from it; the sound of a blade cutting through air.

Dominus held in his hand an axe, of the darkened craftsmanship of the Ancient Nordic People, while practicing a fighting style unknown and alien to the Nord Vampire. Upon seeing Orthjolf, Dominus ceased his practice mid move and strode to speak to the elder vampire.

Wordlessly, Dominus held the Axe out to the Nord.

Orthjolf's eyes widened at the offering, the old ways working their way back up from the eons past. However, he refused the weapon, reaching for his side to grasp the handle of his own axe and pulled it from his side. If he could kill the Slayer of Harkon… He would be the new Lord. And he could finally cut out Vingalmo's heart

The battle was short, and Orthjolf soon found himself on his back with the blade of his axe split in two, the Ancient Nordic weapon held against his throat.

"You fool. You prance about all day, gloating of your strength and prowess with a weapon, and that magic is just a tool for the weak. I ought to kill you now, drain your blood, and leave your head on a stick outside the castle."

Orthjolf's breathing quickened, adrenaline coursing through his dead veins as he flexed his arms to seize the filthy Elf's neck-

As Dominus grabbed the red headed Nord by both of his wrists, the axe clattering to the ground forgotten.

"Or, I could just feed." He said menacingly, his eyes burning a bright orange as he opened his mouth wide, baring his fangs.

Orthjolf shut his eyes tight, and he felt as time seemed to… slow. He thought back to his past, all but buried under a blood-soaked haze; a time of green summers, of his homeland of Atmora, and of his time as a Shield-Brother of Ysgramor and Captain of the Companions. He wondered… if his actions in his last life would grant him passage into sovngarde, or if his bloodlust would doom him to an eternity of torment in the house of the Harvester of Souls-

The pressure of his hands abruptly vanished, and the breath on his neck seemingly vanished like a slight lick of wind.

"You have great potential, Orthjolf. I am strong enough to slay you, grind your bones to meal and sprinkle it from the roof of my Castle like snow. However, you should be matured like a good wine, and nurtured to be a grand warrior; a general equal to Ysgramor himself. Go now; train. If I am able to beat you the next time I offer you my axe, or vice versa, I will not be so merciful."

* * *

 _"And what of Orthjolf, my Lord?"_

 _Dominus chuckled lightly, a half smile spreading across his face._

 _"Orthjolf is a blunt instrument; a Cudgel or Battle-Axe to be swung and wielded not with deadly accuracy or precision as one would fire an arrow or use a dagger, but with brute force and a resolve to simply remove all in the way instead of a few. However, deductive reasoning tells me quite a bit of his character and former life, despite nothing being listed in my predecessor's journals. He was likely a Shield Brother; a warrior companion; to Ysgramor, one of the first Nord Kings in Skyrim. It is just a hunch, but he has quite a distaste for the Elven folk, in a way that I can only imagine that could have been cultivated as being one of those precious few warriors who survived through the ages, if not a leader of a crew. Therefore I think that his days of commanding a military conquest would be invaluable to me as General over a second new division, which I shall discuss with you in due time. But could you please bring Vingalmo inside? I shall inform him of the new expectations he shall need to live up to, as well as the price he will pay for failure."_

* * *

Orthjolf fled from the room, carrying an Ancient Nordic war-axe in his hand as he sprinted towards the armory, where he presumably began sharpening his combat skills. Smirking slightly, Garan strolled back up the passageway a second time, to see his Lord pulling the chain to close the portcullis to the Shrine, and making his way towards his quarters. Dominus wordlessly motioned for Dunmer Chamberlain to follow, closing the door behind him.

"It seems my encouragement succeeded."

"It would seem so, sire." Garan said, folding his hands behind his back and inclining his head in a bow.

"Might I inquire to what is on your mind, my friend?"

Garan stiffened, surprised at his Lord's ability to read expressions and body language.

"Forgive my discretion, I didn't want to offend you by speaking out of turn." He said, bowing deeply.

Dominus sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"Garan, come now. What is on your mind?"

"I... was curious, as to what the next stage of your plan is to be?"

Dominus smiled, his pointed teeth glinting in the limelight.

"Our first step, is to meet with our Thin-Blooded friends. After they have been given orders, I shall reveal my grand scheme for Skyrim, and perhaps all of Tamriel."

Garan's eyes widened in surprise, but they returned to regular size quickly, along with a small smirk.

"I shouldn't be surprised, my Lord. You always seemed to be quite the ambitious one."

"Always astute, my friend." Dominus said with a grin.

* * *

 _Thats all for this one. As soon as this is sent out I will be working on the Clone Wars story The General, with the fated meetup between Clone General Shard and General Grievous._


	4. Chapter 4: The Lord's Banquet

_OK, so I will be completly honest. I have had some serious stuff go on in my life, and with the addition of being at the end of Senior year, I havent had the time or energy to continue writing my stories. However, I am back and am here for a bit. I will work on The General, and this story, but I will focus on skyrim for a time._

 _Yours in writing, -Cloaked Writter_

* * *

 _ **~Loredas, 20th of Morning Star, Falkreath, 4E 203~**_

Serana inhaled the frozen night air of Falkreath Hold, her resolve hardening as she let out her breath quietly and without steam.

She had her message, and knew her orders as given to her by Dominus, but convincing the thin-bloods to let her in their lair would take some serious precautions, or incredible diplomacy. Her hand drifted to the Elven War-Axe gifted to Serana by her Lord during their travel through the Hidden Vale. If words and charm failed, her axe would need cleaning in the morning.

The Thrall was a common bandit, dressed in furs and sporting both a heavy beard and tanned skin, suggesting heavy time spent in the sun. At his hip stood a petty iron sword, the weapon seemingly intended more to threaten potential intruders or treasure hunters then to fight.

Their lair was some nameless and forgotten crypt, yet it was clearly marked within the whispered words of the Court and of the Mortal Taverns as a lair of thin-bloods, spawned from the victims of careless Lords of the past and their ravenous feeding.

The Thrall managed to pull her from her musings and back into Skyrim when he noticed the vampire.

"Hey! Piss off!" The Thrall shouted, drawing his weapon and positioning himself in a hostile stance.

"I am here to speak to your master, Thrall. Go and fetch them for me." she said loudly. His eyes narrowed at the mention of his master, before rushing forward with a battlecry.

Serana sighed, opening her palm and readying a lightning bolt. She had hoped to avoid violence, but it was understandable; anyone who knew of their presence would undoubtedly be a threat, at least that would be the reasoning of the simple mind of a Thrall.

With hardly an afterthought the Daughter of Coldharbour released her bolt of lightning, slaying the Nord and sending him flying back into the decayed stone wall. Hopefully the next set of defences will be more reasonable she hoped.

The door opened with a loud creak, the sunlight providing scant light to the foul crypt. However, her natural abilities of night vision allowed her to see all she needed to.

The passage continued in a large hallway that was raised with the natural curvature of the earth and burrowed deeper into the mountain into a likely inner sanctum. A small room, or cell of sorts, broke away from the main passage and into a circular chamber of small alcoves filled with old and brittle skeletons. However, in a small yet comfortable coffin, lay a vampire.

She was of of the Altmer, wearing faded vampire robes of a greyish hue, and slumbering peacefully in a dreameless sleep.

Serana was careful to lift her small Elven dagger from the woman's waist, and with her fellow undead disarmed, she knocked loudly on the lid of the coffin; leaning carefully on the side of the casket.

Her eyes opened sharply, the amber glow burning with hatred and fear. She sat up with a hiss and locked eyes on Serana, baring her teeth to the intruder.

"Stay your teeth, Sister. I am a friend."

She hesitated, noticing her amber eyes and pale skin, yet not completely relaxing.

"You are one of the night, yet you wear the cape and armor of Volkihar. Why do you come, My Lady?" She inquired mockingly.

"I come with a message for your Master, or whoever leads this Coven. An invitation to Castle Volkihar for a banquet."

She arched an eyebrow.

"Truly? I didn't think Harkon had it in him."

"Harkon is dead. A new Lord has ascended to the mantel, and he is of a different mindset."

"I see. Follow me, I will take you to Master Fulo."

* * *

 ** _~Loredas, 3rd of Sun's Dawn, Castle Volkihar, Coast of Skyrim, 4E 203~_**

Lord Dominus sat upon his throne, clad in all of his finery while the lute music drifted down from the upper balcony of the library, the party in full swing. Dressed in the Volkihar robes, yet accented with Bonemold and Elven metals instead of the conventional steel plates and pauldrons, drumming his golden talloned gloves against the long cudgel laid across his lap.

While most preferred a blade or axe, the long thing stick made of carefully wrought ebony, with golden bands accenting the ends was all he needed. The weapon both confused his enemies, offered him a regal aura, and gave him greater reach for slaying his foes.

Of all of the Masters of the Covens he had sent for, only nine arrived. Some he knew put up a fight, others had allowed his emissaries entry then flat out refused their invitations.

By some trick of fate, or a gift by Molag Bal himself, the vampires were all inhabitants from each of the nine holds.

In honor of the guests, cattle were given free reign of the banquet hall; some carrying platters upon which goblets filled to the brim with their own blood sloshed with that crimson nectar, others simply sat against the walls in a daze, sometimes being grasped by a wandering vampire and being drunk from.

Dominus eyed the rafters, and to his plan B. Drumming his fingers across the cudgel, he hoped that he did not need to use it.

"The crossbows are ready, aren't they, Garan?"

"Yes, My Lord. They have also been set up to the sensitive plate at the base of the throne."

"Good. Then it is time to begin."

Lifting the weapon into the air, he brought it down with a resounding metallic clunk. All conversation ceased, and the current members of the court made their way to the edges of the room, leaning against the walls with their arms folded, or else sipping on a goblet of blood.

"Honored guests, please stand before the throne." Dominus declared.

The vampires complied, holding guarded expressions as they stood in a small gaggle in the center of the room.

"Fellow hunters of the night. You are wise enough to know I did not simply invite you here to sip upon the blood of mortals. You have incredible power, and incredible potential. I ask of you all to kneel, and join this Court."

Dominus smiled at the sharp intake of breath from his advisor. Of all the things of a Lord to do, this was new.

Much to his glee, several of the masters knelt. Six of the nine fell to one knee and bowed their heads, while the others let out dark laughs and ranted of the folly of inviting them to this gathering.

Before they had the time to finish, Dominus activated the plate.

Crossbows, stolen from The Dawnguard and loaded with silver bolts had been aimed down towards the vampires from the rafters earlier in the afternoon. A flurry of silver passed through the heads of the offensive vampires and left their corpses truly dead upon the flagstones.

A stunned silence filled the air, the members of the court likely unsure what to think of the carnage. Dominus knew that some wished that there had been more blood, while others simply pitied the traitorous lions.

"Loyalty is rewarded with prizes and gifts. Betrayal is punished with a thousand fates worse than the swift death that these petty beings were given."

He brought down his heavy weapon once again.

"Vingalmo! Take these to the library and study their lineage, to see if they are able to receive the ultimate gift. Report back to me with your results."

He clapped his hands together, and the cattle set down their serving platters and set about to drag away the corpses.

"Well done, Lord." Garan said quietly in Dominus's ear.

"What shall you do with your new pawns?"

"They will be tasked with thinning the pack. They will return to their covens and slaughter each and every member of their bands, before moving on and destroying the final three Master's followers. I have some menial tasks for them to perform as well, and a simple job that will prove crucial to the next steps of my plan."

Garan was silent for a moment, before speaking again in a whisper.

"When shall I become enlightened of your plan, My Lord? I must admit, I am quite eager to hear it."

"Soon, Brother, soon." Dominus said quietly.

"After the thin bloods in Skyrim are extinct and the tasks for our new lackies are complete, then my plan shall be revealed to all. And when that day comes, it will be far, far too late for Nirn to resist."

* * *

 _Ok this is now done. I will be working on this some more, and hopefully get this finished. Cloaked Writer out._


	5. Chapter 5: The Lord's Project

_Here is the next installment of my vampire lord series, with the lords coming ever closer to unleashing their plan._

* * *

 _ **~Sundas, 25th of First Seed,**_ ** _Haafingar, East Leg of the Solitude Arch,_** _ **4E 203~**_

Acolite Faro was not pleased. He had overseen the disguised Thralls alongside Acolite Malv, Ronthil, and their transport of the mysterious device to the ruins of Folgunthur that was dangerously close to the mortal city Solitude.

Lord Dominus had been so obvious as to hire a ship to meet them off the coasts of northern Skyrim in order to fery the object to its location for an insane price, not to mention the bonus to have them do it in the dead of night.

"What does Dominus even intend to _do_ with this pile of dwemer junk?" Faro asked Ronthil.

The Bosmer pursed his lips.

" _Lord_ Dominus. Remember your place, new blood." He said carefully.

He pulled the protective covering from its place over the crate, revealing the object.

It _looked_ impressive, certainly. But what on earth it could do, Faro doubted even the fanatic little wood elf knew.

A large rectangle lay within, whirring gears indicating the presence of a Centurion Dynamo core within. Six small holes sat upon the roof of the object, and within each of them a soul gem sat innocently.

"What _is_ that?" Malv asked, her amber eyes glowing beneath the darkness of her hood

"It is a Crucibalitory Infusion Array, salvaged from the halls of Blackreach by our Lord, and repaired via persuasion by the tinkers of Markarth." Ronthil replied smugly.

"Okay… What does it do?" she asked, her old Nordic accent slipping out.

Wordlessly the Bosmer clicked his fingers, and it was carefully lifted from it's container and carried towards the tomb. Faro was unsure what the object did himself, but there was an odd protrusion from one side that looked disturbingly like a pipe; or a funnel. And if those soul gems were empty… Well, he certainly did not want to be on the other end of that thing when it went off.

Setting down the dwemer machine upon a broken slab of stone seemed to awaken the guardians of this place. Draugr stepped from the shadows, brandishing tarnished and faded weapons, while wearing terribly damaged scraps of armor.

With a growl, they lunged towards the intruders, only to be dispatched by the superior blades of the Thralls. Dominus had surprisingly dressed his warrior servants with high quality steel armor, while gifting them various swords of equal value.

 _Quality over quantity I suppose_ Faro thought darkly.

After the threat had passed, Ronthil pressed a small orange button on the machine, causing it to shutter and rattle loudly, the soul gems glowing as a purple aura seemed to emit from the doors of the ruin. The moldering temple's doors were forced upon as the purple stream of air glided into the pipe and caused one of the crystals to blink…

Then a second one began to blink.

Then a third.

Soon all of the crystals were flashing, and the stream had dissipated. This time, Ronthil did not even need to snap as the Thralls returned, hefting a pair of large chests with them. One was empty, and he removed the pulsating crystals and placed them carefully inside. The other chests' twin was filled with several dozen soul gems, all ready to be inserted into the machine.

The moons had ceased to rule the edges of the night and now stood high over Nirn when they were finished. The first chest pulsed in unison, while the second lay bare.

"Is this all we came for? Just to harvest soul gems from a crypt?" Faro asked incredulously.

"That is but a fourth of our mission, brother. The next part is for you and Malv. Go and slay the crew of the ship with the Thralls. Leave none alive. And please do it in a clean fashion; I have other duties for the Thralls then having them scrub the deck clean from blood." Ronthil said briskly, fishing for something that he misplaced in the folds of his robes.

"Under normal circumstances I would have relished the opportunity…" Malv said warily, sharing the concerns of Faro.

"But how will we be able to sail the ship back to Castle Volkihar? We number just seven in number, if you count the Thralls."

"Trust in our Lord, Malv. We will soon have all the aid we need." Ronthil said, fishing out a small, crimson stone.

He clinked it against one of the pulsating crystals, and it immediately ceased its rhythmic dance of light, and instead burned with a soft, red glow.

He set it down gently with all of the other crystals, and the crimson peace seemed to spread, stamping out the lialack pulse.

"Go now, I can handle the next phase by myself. You have a job to do." Ronthil ordered, loading the red crystals into the machine and adjusting the gears.

By the time they had cut off the heads of the crew and drained their blood into the water to attract the slaughterfish and mudcrabs, before dumping the bodies into their waiting jaws, the moon was beginning to wane.

And the force was assembled.

A small horde of Draugr stood in rank-and-file formation, headed by a formidable Deathlord King. The characteristic blue aura that gave them an air of mystery was gone, replaced by a deep red the same shade of the soul gems.

"So that is what that machine does… it reanimates the dead and binds them to your will!" Malv said, impressed.

"Half correct. It reanimates them en-mass, but binds them to our Lord's will. An army of pure loyalty to him and those who seek to serve him."

He smiled coyly.

"This shall serve as our first place of secrecy; our outpost within Haafingar."

He turned to the Deathlord.

"We have several empty chests aboard our vessel. Load up all the items of value into the ship, then board our ship and sail us to Castle Volkihar.

The Draugr bowed low, before barking out something in the ancient speak of the ancient Nords, and the dead men set about gathering their riches that they had once fought and died to protect; now a token to their new master.

* * *

 _ **~Sundas, 1st of Rain's Hand, Castle Volkihar, Coast of Skyrim, 4E 203~**_

" _The Frozen Fang_ has returned, My Lord." Garan said into his Lord's ear. He has been hunched over a yellowing journal that smelled of a fine mixture of dust and decaying flesh, while using a bookmark with an Imperial emblem upon it.

"I see. Did Ronthil report of any issues with our two newest Acolites?"

"They are full of ambition, and are still new to the prospect of submitting to you. However, they seem content to serve for the moment."

"Wonderful. If possible, we should let Vingalmo and Orthalf become their new targets. Make it known that the place as my advisor is to be the coveted seat, not the title of Lord itself. Better to let them fight one another then become unified against me, for the moment." Dominus said quietly, leaning back against his chair.

Garan bowed, and strode for the door, his mind's eye set upon a goblet of blood sitting on a table in the dining hall.

"Garan."

He stopped, turning to face his master. His face was neutral, yet he seemed to radiate a complete and utter power over his situation.

"You once asked to know the full extent of my power. I am prepared to reveal it to you."

* * *

 _Woop this is the end of this installment. Its a bit shorter then I'd like, but the next one is going to explain Lord Dominus's scheme to rule all of Skyrim. -Cloaked Writer._


	6. Chapter 6: The Lord's Diplomacy

_The Plot for Skyrim's future is afoot._

* * *

 _ **~Sundas, 1st of Rain's Hand, Castle Volkihar, Coast of Skyrim, 4E 203~**_

Illuminated by candlelight, the pair of Dunmer vampires sat around the collection of books and journals that made up the Lord's chamber.

"Within these journals, lie the key. The key to my plot." Dominus said, pressing two fingers down on the open pages of one of the journals.

"It details the life of Lu'ah Al-Skaven, a Redguard necromancer who for a time dwelt with her coven in Eastmarch, excavating the ruins of Ansilvund. She had lost her husband to The Great War between the Empire and the Elves, and resented the Nords for not breaking away from the Empire after the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. She hated the Empire for burning her husband's remains before he could be raised as an undead companion, or even to be quietly buried in the Redguard fashion. She despises the Nords for choosing now and hates the Stormcloaks for being so blind."

"Thus, she wanted to raise an army of her own and defeat them both. She and her followers raised and trained draugr day and night, gathering their forces to march on Windhelm, then then cut a bloody path across Skyrim to Solitude."

"A bold plan, My Lord." Garan said with a small bit of respect for the woman.

"I trust that she is no more?"

"Indeed. Her and her coven were in my way, and I was mortal. I sought petty trinkets over grand schemes. Yet, within all the novels I collected, this stood out in its boldness. And when I was gifted with Harkon's blood, my mind drifted to the possibilities to shepherding the heard."

He gestured to a second journal.

"This is the diary of Alva, a vampire under the sway of Movarth Piquine, and was the linchpin of his scheme to take over the settlement of Morthal as a feeding ground. An equally bold idea. But I have since pondered. What if the two plans were to merge?"

He gestured to the Journal of Lu'ah.

"The Dwemer trinket I have discovered, and the spell to enthrall them to my will from the generous will of an old friend, has gifted me with a small army. We have some vampires that we can at least use as marshal commanders, or minor generals in their own right; with the proper grooming of course. I have yet to establish a spy network and band the Dark Brotherhood to the New Order of the Crimson Scars, but that will soon change. Within the decade, I will rule all of Skyrim, and it will be the feeding ground of all of the Vampires, and become the first *true* Vampire Kingdom of the North."

"That is… quite ambitious, My Lord. Forgive me, but… Are you sure we can pull it off?" the adviser said, his awe disguised and veiled by caution.

"I am certain. However, we have need of allies in our attack. I know of a way to gain one ally, but his price would be the entirety of The Reach. Our second ally would be far more difficult to persuade to my side, especially due to the fact I have slighted her in the past."

Dominus rose, clearly still pondering the fact.

"I will negotiate with The Forsworn, then… Let us hope that bitch is in a pleasant mood. We may need Vingalmo to dust off his Thalmor robes and play diplomat for us. In the meantime, I have a special mission for you."

Garan's eyes widened. Evidently, he had not been expecting to be given a mission at this time, or any time in the near future, as he would likely be needed here.

"Yes. For you and for Ronthil. I have a feeling that he has the potential to be a new adviser for me. He is loyal, and his confidence has risen since the Acolites have arrived. You are to take the southernmost road for Helgen and travel to Cyrodiil by way of Bruma."

He handed his adviser a closed letter.

"This will explain everything. I have a pair of Enthralled Legionaries to pose as your guards and give you passage into the Empire. Best of luck, my friend. And safe travels."

* * *

 _ **~Loredas, 6th of Mid Year, Druadach Redoubt, The Reach, 4E 203~**_

"A fascinating plot, my friend." Madanach said, leaning back on his bench and gazing into the cook-fires of Druadach Redoubt, the quasi-official capital of the Reachmen Confederation of the Twelve Tribal camps.

It had been a few months since Dominus's messenger has come; a bandit carrying aloft a white flag of truce, a letter for the King in Rags, and with instructions to slay the messenger within the week if he accepted to a summit in two months time, and for his blood to be a gift to the Old Gods.

One week later, the messenger did not return, and Dominus set up his entourage.

He would be in attendance, of course. No hand or face besides his own would be able to spin the yarn required to get the Forsworn on their side. Ortholf was also amongst those chosen. He was a brash, blunt man at best; and an insulting brute at worst. However, if Dominus planned to have his army, he was the best man there was to be the commander and chief. He also selected a pair of Acolites, one of which being native to Haafingar in Pinemoon Cave, quite close to some of the northernmost Reachmen camps.

A trio of Thralls were also in attendance; clad in steel armor and baring enchanted weapons with incredible reach; halberds. A recent occurrence in the neighboring province of Hammerfell, yet the idea had begun to bleed over to the counts of Highrock and by association the Orcs of Orsinium. These were crafted by those Bretons in Highrock; it was a stretch to think that the Reachmen would recognize the craftsmanship of their north-eastern cousins, but one could hope.

The meeting was glorious; a ring of benches encircled a large cooking fire, while the representatives of each tribe and camp was present. None of the traditional Matriarchs had arrived in person. Understandable, of course; if it all turned out to be a trap, the leaders of the various tribes could not function without their leaders. In their stead, Warlords and Briarheart leaders had been sent, and it was they who filled almost two thirds of the space around the fire.

Dominus's entourage filled the remaining seats. At his right hand sat Ortholf, while on his left and Ortholf's right sat the Acolytes. Standing behind the group as steadfast as the stones of the ruins of Skyrim, stood the Thralls, their Halberds resting like staffs upon the well trodden floor, their faces enclosed in helmets to disguise where and who they were looking at.

"It is a bold plan, but one that I feel will be able to benefit us both. The people of The Reach have been long suffering, and myself and my associates feel that the City of Markarth and the surrounding area of the Karth River should return to those who lived and worked these lands." Dominus said, his grip tightening around his cudgel.

He had explained his plan to gift these people the lands and full autonomy, but was counting on the shock and awe of his proposal to mask his next request. However, Madanach and his closest supporters had been passive throughout his entire speech.

"So you have said, but what is the catch? I know you, Dominus. You would not simply give without expecting something in return. You are amongst friends here, spit it out." he said in a friendly tone, but the humor in his voice did little to cover the challenge in his tone.

"Very well. For one, this take over is to be just that; a take over. I will have my followers, under the guise of Nord Rebels and Cutthroats, assassinate the Jarl's household and-"

"No. If there is to be a takeover, _I_ will be the one who executes him and his entire family of bastards." Madanach said firmly.

"As you wish. But I will be firm in saying this; I know of your disdain for the Nords within the reach, and I possess a way to remove the guards in a quick and clean fashion, and desire to remove the non-Breton and non-Reachmen population of the city and of the townships from the land en-mass-"

"I must object to this," one of the Warlords said; the emissary from one of the far western tribes, if the orcish blade at his belt was any indication.

"The exodus of all people of non-Breton descent would render the city and surrounding lands completely useless; we need them to remain to work. Our only wish is to depose the government, and to purge those of the Nords that support it."

"Perhaps a compromise could be reached?" one of the Acolites suggested. Dominus was not sure of her name… He needed to get in a habit of remembering their names.

A pause began, which stretched on for nearly a minute.

"What if, we were to take only those you deemed undesirable?" Dominus proposed.

"What do you mean?" One of the Warlords asked; the delegate from Karthwasten, if he was not mistaken.

Dominus leaned forward, and spun his story.

"Imagine this scenario: You rule Markarth, everything is peaceful. But your guards and assassins frequently note that a man- a Nord, for the sake of this tale - is causing havoc in your lands. He organizes revolts, speaks out against the King, and violates law after law. He is not a danger to the stability of the people, but he represents a weed that could grow into a horrible monster. If he were to… quietly disappear, and it were treated as a criminal murder, then the Confederacy would be blameless and the problem would be solved."

Dominus leaned back, his eyes catching the glow of the fire and sending a light shiver down the line of Forsworn.

"I have men who live and breath in the shadows. I can offer some of these beings to your service. Men and women who operate _outside_ the realms of the councils, a group who can quickly dispose of a problem without the wait of a Clan Meeting. _They_ could remove such issues, until your Kingdom has the resources and the stability to create an organization of your own specific flavor and secrecy should you deem it useful."

"Why should we bother with a secret organization? Why not simply send out the guards and remove the man?" Madanach asked. There was something about the question… it did not feel like an honest worry. More like, a test.

A test Dominus had seen and prepared for.

"You could do that. But the result would the death of you and your followers when such brutality is unable to stamp out the spark. In other words, the fate of Thonar Silver-Blood would be repeated. On that topic, we shall leave Thronvor to you and your assassins; I know a marked man when I see one." Dominus finished, meeting Madanach's eyes with a small smile.

He had passed the King's test.

"Very astute, my friend." he said with a chuckle. He waved over a nameless Forsworn woman who was keeping careful track of everything a short ways from the fire, writing everything down on rolls of parchment. She handed him her notes, letting him read quietly for a moment.

"The treaty at this moment reads like this: your… hm, what was the name of your organization again?"

Dominus paused, and he felt both the Acolites and Ortholf stiffin. If he said the word 'Volkihar', they would never agree. Hagravens were one thing, Brierhears were stretching it, but deals with Vampires? They would never sign the treaty if he knew they were Volkihar.

"We are the The New Skyrim Army" he said calmly.

Madanach simply nodded, adding the name with a stroke of his quill

"You and your organization will provide us the opportune moment for us to seize the entirety of The Reach for our Confederacy, and gift us a small number of operatives to use with our discretion in silencing revolts. In return, we will gift those treasonous men and women to you as prisoners, and offer you our services and aid should the time arise."

He looked up from the treaty.

"Does that sound about right?"

"Perfect." Dominus said with a wicked smile.

"I will sign it."

"Do you need the approval of those of your organization?" Madanach asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I am the face and leader of my organization. I am all the approval needed." Dominus said simply.

Madanach scoffed.

"I see. In either case, we shall now vote on whether or not the Confederacy agrees to these terms. It should only take a moment."

It was nearly unanimous.

"Dragon Bridge Overlook can not agree to such demands. We will need aid on the borders in order to-" he had been cut off mid speech by a Briarheart, the warrior plunging a sword in the Warlord's chest and carving out his still beating heart and consuming it, before unfurling a note from his waist.

"The Tribe of Bruca's Leap Redoubt have annexed the camp of Dragon Bridge Overlook. Their vote is void as of yesterday morning."

 _Now_ the vote was unanimous.

"By the will of the Forsworn and with my Blessing, I declare our Confederation in support of this treaty." Madanach said, wetting his hand in blood and pressing it to the treaty.

Dominus, loath to dirty his gauntlets, resigned himself to simply dipping a quill in the open wound of the dead delegate and giving his signature.

"The treaty of Druadach Redoubt is now in effect!" Madanach declared loudly, followed by the war-cries and the beating of drums and chests of those Forsworn in the camp and of the delegation. Dominus's entourage resigned themselves to clapping quietly, while the thralls and Dominus himself drummed the long handles of their weapons on the hard earth beneath their feet.

The first alliance was cemented.

"Will you stay for the celebrations, Dominus?" Madanach asked, approaching him as the delegates began to disperse and drink their Breton wines and stolen ale.

"I am tempted, but I have another diplomatic mission I must prepare for."

"Ah… you must love politics, my fanged friend." the King in Rags chuckled, revealing the closely guarded secret to Dominus's entourage, allowing them to relax.

"Did you not tell them I knew you were Vampires?" he inquired to the Dunmer.

"They never asked." he replied with a snicker.

"But I am afraid this is not an enjoyable meeting I plan to attend. It is a chore, in all honesty. But one that needs to be done sooner rather than later."

"I see. And who, if you do not mind me asking, are the recipients of your disdain?"

"The Thalmor. In order for them to keep out of our little incursion, and to stay out of the way in future engagements, I need to speak to Elenwen."

Madanach nodded, a grave look on his unshaven face.

"I have heard tales about her to frighten Warlords. Best of luck."

"Thank you, my friend. I think that I will need it."

* * *

 _ **~Turdas, 12th of Mid Year, Windstad Manor,**_ ** _Hjaalmarch, 4E 203~_**

"I am certain you are wondering why I invited you here." Dominus said with false brightness, picking up his expensive pewter cup bought via caravan from Cyrodiil, filled with Moon-Tea shipped in from Elsweyr. His bard, Sonir, was carefully playing the unique lute imported through the insane prices of the East Empire Company from the Summerset Isles, and was using the bow of this lute - a violin, Dominus believed it was called - to nervously yet flawlessly fill the air of the quiet manor with the sounds of the Altmer.

"Oh I am simply _dying_ to know." Elenwen said coldly, her own cup of Moon-Tea sitting untouched on the table while her arms were crossed across her chest. Her two Thalmor agents stood on either side of her, staring down at him with their own hands on their daggers, their gloved hands no doubt planing to cast an untold number of spells at a moment's notice.

This was going to be a _very_ difficult meeting.

He was not afraid for his life; his cudgel was but a stride away, leaning against the fireplace. On one side stood his enthralled housecarl and steward, Valdimar, and a Thrall dressed in the finest Ebony that Hestla could craft.

"Your guards can be trusted with confidential information, am I correct?" Dominus inquired lightly.

"I would ask the same of your own." she countered.

Ignoring the bait to engage her in an argument that she could use against him, Dominus continued.

"I will be perfectly honest with you," he said, trailing the rim of his finger around the lip of his cup.

"I had no real want to harm your Justicars, nor did I intend to crash your party." he said, his amber eyes meeting her emerald glare.

"But to bring attention to the party, we did have a remarkable conversation while I was in attendance-"

"Before you got that horrible East Empire Trading Company manager to drunkenly rave slurs about me?" she cut in coldly.

"Believe me, that I did not tell him to say such things. I simply gave him a bottle of brandy, and told him to make a distraction. I had no part in what he said or did, and was as disgusted as you were. If I had a choice in the matter, I would have joined you in your condemnation of the man, but as I knew no one else at the party and had no other avenue in order to conduct my elicit deeds, I was forced to withdraw." Dominus lied, raising his hands to assure her before lowering them back to grip his cup.

"You are not helping your situation. Why did you infiltrate the Embassy in the first place?"

"To be frank, I was aligned with people who believed that you held information on the Dragon outbreak."

"Oh? And who would that be?"

Dominus tisked, shaking his head.

"Come now, Madam Ambassador. Surely you know the art of trade? I will give you your information, in exchange for something."

The Altmer sneered.

"What could a Dark Elf want from me?"

"Your word to consider my offer. I will give you the names of those who sent me to damage your papers, _if_ you listen and consider my proposal."

Elenwen leaned back in her chair, looking down her nose to me.

"I can't wait to hear this one." she said dryly.

Dominus hunkered down, and prepared to pounce. It would take one hell of a pitch to convince _Elenwen_ to support his plan, but he knew what rubbed the Thalmor the wrong way from his conversations with them on their travels from city to city, and he specifically knew the right way to rub them.

"You once told me at the party that you and your people had no stake in the Civil War that rages throughout Skyrim. However, I think that this statement is only half true. You _do_ have a stake in it; you want it to continue. For your foes, the Empire, to drain manpower and resources to keep a barren wasteland within their grasp, to ensure that they have a connection to their holdings in Highrock and Cyrodiil. If the Empire succeeds, then they have a province restored to their Empire. They will need a few years to lick their wounds and remedy their faith in the people's hearts and minds, but they will pass relatively unscathed."

Dominus leaned forward, his tea forgotten. It was a bitter and flavorless drink, and he only stomached it to make the ambassador feel more comfortable. But seeing as she did not touch it, he ignored it too.

"In contrast, you do not want the Stormcloak upstarts to win either. Their brute army with no semblance of elegance, bound to the old ways, are rabid worshipers of Talos and are no friend to the Elves. They will always see themselves an enemy of the Thalmor. If you destroy the Empire when the Second Great War eventually arrives, you will have to either burn through Orsinium, Hammerfell, or that frozen land of the Nords, Skyrim, to truly stamp out the Empire."

He leaned back in his chair, pulling from a satchel on the floor a notebook.

"I know the usefulness of Ulfric to your cause to ensure the Empire's eyes remain to the North. But what I offer will give you a stake in the war, and I offer a quick and decisive way to aid you and your faction. To start, a gift. I have no use of it, and my contemporaries were not interested in it."

He slit the dossier across the table, it being seized by one of the Thalmor soldiers and placed firmly in their own satchel.

"Now, my proposal-"

"What of your former associates? Were you not going to give me their names?" Elenwen asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I can do better, _if_ you approve of my proposal. If not, I can simply give you their names and our meeting can be adjourned. However, you will not be able to find them. Not with a legion of Justicars."

Her silence was all Dominus needed to continue.

"I have a rather large group of followers, and am a minor diplomat of myself. I have ambitions to enter the gamble for Skyrim's fate."

Elenwen laughed. A true hearty laugh, mirrored by her soldiers, who seemed to see the humor that she did.

"You want our backing, so you can set up some little kingdom in one of the holds? I am sorry, Dunmer. But you will have to do better than-"

"You misjudge me. I do not plan to simply take a town. Or a single hold. I plan to seize the whole of Skyrim."

She snickered.

"And what of The Reach, hm? What of Whiterun? Or Windhelm? No band of mercenaries can possible scale-"

"Madam Ambassador."

His tone was not loud, not was it angry, yet there was a power to Dominus's words that silenced her and slew the humor in the room.

"I have an army two hundred strong, with more entering my service each month. I have the support of the Reachmen, and have strong political power in all of the Nine holds. My unique status as Dragonborn also gives me significant leverage over both the Empire and the Stormcloaks. I am a hero to these people, and men on both sides will throw open their doors to me. I will win this war. What I need, is a recognition of legitimacy. If the Thalmor government signed a treaty - any treaty, some petty deal of ivory for lumber for example - would provide my reign with legitimacy enough to silence the calls of the Empire or any other hawks that would seek to carve up the province."

"What is in it for the Thalmor? My superiors would never support a proxy war without serious gain."

"To begin, guaranteed removal of Talos worship within a years time. I am skilled in the schools of manipulation, and with a touch of magic, I am sure I can convince people to melt down their amulets and shrines, or else collect them in a museum of the dead cult of Talos. For another, I can gift you the location and last stronghold of your hated rivals; the Blades."

Elenwen's eyes widened.

"The… The Blades?"

"Yes. A handful managed to escape your purge. I have tracked them down. Some openly admitted themselves to me, others required a bit of digging to their background. _They_ were the ones who hired me to infiltrate your compound; and their usefulness has come to an end. My final offer is that of an alliance. We would be willing to ally ourselves with you should you desire. The force of the Nords crashing into Cyrodiil, or Hammerfell, or Highrock, Orsinium, even Morrowind, should you require us."

Elenwen smiled.

"I think that will suit our wants and needs deliciously." she said coyly. She picked up her cup of Moon-Tea.

"A toast? I always found that the flavors settle when it is cool."

They saluted, and drank.

The papers were signed within the hour, and Elenwen left soon after, a confident smile on her face.

Dominus watched her go, smiling to himself. She thought that she had maneuvered herself into ruling Skyrim by proxy; if Skyrim was to be a puppet then it made perfect sense that the highest ranking Thalmor official would be the acting governor, or governess in her case.

He sipped the Moon-Tea, marveling at the sweet flavor, now that it had gone cold.

If Garan and Ronthil's mission went according to plan, then the Aldmeri Dominion would be unnecessary. After all, Tamriel underestimated the former giant of the continent. Cyrodiil was a slumbering dragon, and he was determined to prod it awake.

* * *

 _The Diplomacy with the Elves and the Reachmen have come to an end. But what do Garan and Ronthil have planned for Cyrodiil? Find out soon... -Cloaked Writer._

 _P.S. I am working on the next chapter of The Clone General, its gonna be a long project for each chapter._


	7. Chapter 7: The Lord's Mission

_This is going to be the mission down to Cyrodill by Garan. I am using the mod Beyond Skyrim: Bruma and in-game information about the Imperial City for the locations, people, buildings, and areas of these stories. Some of these locations are places within the game of Oblivion, others are unique to the mod. I hope you enjoy :) -Cloaked Writer_

* * *

 ** _~Sundas, 8th of Rain's Hand, Cyrodiil/Skyrim Border, Jerall Mountain Pass, 4E 203~_**

One thing that Garan had learned from his time under Lord Dominus, was that he often downplayed his abilities and resources.

To start, *a few* is generally more than just a few.

Garan tugged at the Colovian noble clothes, taken from one of the corpses of travelers on their way to Solitude; they had mentioned some nonsense about a wedding they were hopelessly late for, and were too busy fighting with one another to notice the gaggle of Thralls and the pair of Vampires' ambush.

They had gotten through the border surprisingly easy; their clothes, jewelry, and entourage enough of a show to convince the border patrol that they were Colovian Nobles returning to Cyrodiil.

How Lord Dominus had managed to enthrall an entire camp of Imperial Soldiers, and fabricate the papers should they need to talk their way out of a tight situation… He made a mental note to ask his Lord upon his return.

Fort Pale Pass was a terrifying experience despite the disguises. Due to the Stormcloak Rebels, an entire Legion had been stationed along the border, alongside with a small city of fortifications and tents. Stormcloak prisoners were dragged in chains within the courtyard of the fort, handed to the dreaded Penitus Oculatus before they were taken wailing into the carts to travel to the dreaded Imperial Dungeon.

The group stopped for the rest of the night and for the remaining of the day at a cozy little inn; Snowstone Rest. It was small, far too small to host their entire group. But in order to fit in they bought enough food for the Thralls and for the pair of Vampires, which likely gave the owner enough coin to live comfortably for the rest of his days.

Some of his men rested in the dining hall of the establishment, dozing off in chairs and taking it in shifts to rest and keep a watchful eye on the few patrons of the inn.

Garan and Ronthil slept in separate rooms, each protected by a heavily armored guard who would watch sleeplessly as they rested.

Garan had difficulty falling asleep, eventually resigning to simply sleep on the floor in order to mimic the feeling of resting in a coffin.

He awoke the next night with a terrible thirst, easily sated with the neck of his bodyguard.

He emerged from his room, followed soon after by Ronthil.

"Did you rest well, Garan?" The wood elf inquired to his senior.

"As well as I could. I had to sleep on the floor. How were you?"

"The same. I ended up leaning against the wall as stiff as a board. How long do you think the trec to Bruma should take?"

"Hopefully a night's walk. We will likely be forced to rest and plan within the town, and see if we can make connections with our target."

Ronthil nodded.

"Did our orders give any idea _how_ to contact the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order?"

"Lord Dominus did not specifically state how, but I am sure there are ways to speak out in a way only other vampires will know."

The Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order, the only group of Vampires within the Imperial heartland of Cyrodiil, was a reclusive clan by definition. Incredibly secretive, all known sources - Mortal and Vampiric - speak of their prowess of deception and blending into society, and their hunger for controlling the avenues of power. If they could be carefully groomed into an ally, or at least convince them to remove whatever influence they held within the Skyrim Legions, Lord Dominus would be able to sweep into Skyrim relatively easily.

Of course, that all balanced on convincing the Order. And by association, that required finding them.

"We will need to make ourselves seen as benevolent merchants and lovers of culture; men unassailable by the law and by all avenues of reason. What shall you be a collector or connoisseur of?" Garan asked, his hands folded behind his back as the night chill whipped through his hair and around the guards encircling the pair of Vampires.

"Perhaps of alcohol; such liquid does not seem to affect the undead, but I can mimic it rather well." Ronthil said, stroking his chin.

"Perhaps I shall be of the arts," Garan said passively.

"I do enjoy architecture, and could compare Bruma's style of buildings to that of Ancient Breton and Ancient or Modern Nordic. I think our identities are complete, and when we arrive we should be able to settle in quite well."

"How long until we make our move?"

"A few months, at the least. We need to cement our relations and perhaps make connections with the elite and the Count's Court. Then several weeks at least of keeping track of those that would be missed, yet not spark a full Penitus Oculatus investigation at their demise."

"I see." Ronthil replied.

They progressed in silence for a time, their target growing closer and closer.

A hundred strides from the North Gate, Garan turned to Ronthil.

"To Bruma then. And to the Mortal machine."

* * *

 ** _~Middas, 13th of Mid Year, Bruma, The Jerall View Inn, 4E 203~_**

Garan sipped his bottle of Applewatch Cider in the dining area of The Jerall View Inn in Bruma, unfurling the weekly copy of the Black Horse Courier as he readied to dine on his breakfast. Mortal food sickened him; no baked pastry, toasted grain, or charred meat could ever hope to stand against the sweet allure of blood. But, in order to keep up the charade, he ate up. The front page of the paper caught his eye.

"Murder in Bruma? Bard found drained of blood in his own home?" Garan wondered aloud.

"Poor old Renod. A shame isn't it?" Stantus Faleria the innkeeper said with a wince.

"He used to work here, but we fired him nearly two months ago. He worked at The Restful Watchman for a week or so, but he then started giving singing lessons at his home. I guessed someone would do something about him - maybe a stern talking too, or at worst a threat - but not straight up murder!" he said incredulously.

Garan flashed a sympathetic look to the man, but on the inside he was jubilant. He and Ronthil had met the man after one of his singing lessons after dark and murdered him, ensuring to drain his blood via a vein on the wrist and with a single prick from a knife; an unconventional place and way for a Vampire to drink from, which would hopefully throw the Vigilant and the Guards off of their scent while catching the eye of the Order.

Garan had discreetly stolen a book on the Order, an anonymous publishment by one of their members, dictating the laws that Cyrodilic Vampires were to abide by. One of the most heavily stressed rules was to not kill their quarry.

The bloodless death would certainly draw one of them out of the shadows to investigate.

* * *

 _ **~Middas, 13th of Mid Year, Bruma, The Restful Watchman, 4E 203~**_

Ronthil took a bite of his stale bread and chased it down with a mouthful of cheap wine in the cramped bar of The Restful Watchman. Honestly, there _has_ to be some law on titles being truly and utterly false. The rooms were little more that doors attached a mere meter away from the bedposts, while the walls were so thin it was easy to hear the drunken slurs of blacked out drinkers, lustful moans of horny lovers, or rageful curses of the other patrons.

The blood was of incredibly poor quality too.

He noted another Vampire; An ancient Volkihar Thin-Blood, that was all but feral and feeding on the patrons in their sleep. He had quietly indicated which were the heaviest drinkers and which would, therefore, be the easiest meal, but he did not mention how the alcohol seemed to corrupt the blood.

Bleary-eyed, he opened a daily issue of the Black Horse Courier, when his eyes widened. He dropped the crude clay cup to the floor, miraculously not breaking it yet spilling its contents upon the already ruined wood.

"Ah, you heard of that murder, eh?" the owner asked, scrubbing a pitcher with a dirty rag.

"I at first sized up have the men in this room as the one who did it. But the second line made me think. The Great War and that Civil War up North has made a bunch of Necromancers… and we have some shady types around town. Any ideas who it could be?" He asked, hunching forward.

"Not sure, maybe that dark fellow that snoops around the Mage's Guild? Razzada, I think he is called. He always seems to have something suspicious for sale every time I walk past him."

"No… too obvious." The barkeep said passively.

"Bah, at any rate the city watch will find who is responsible. It won't be figured out under this roof."

"Hear hear!" Ronthil said, raising his glass with false glee. He downed the rest of the horrible drink and stood to leave. He went to pay, but Bentior stopped him.

"Hey, it's on the house. I don't often get good conversation 'round here."

* * *

 ** _~Middas, 13th of Mid Year, Bruma, Merchant's District, 4E 203~_**

Garan and Ronthil met in the decided location; an alleyway in the mercantile district of the town.

"You saw the Courier this morning?" Garan asked his associate in a whisper.

"Yes, it seems half of Cyrodiil knows. I didn't expect the news to spread so quickly." Ronthil replied, sipping from a marked bottle possessing the dead bard's blood, swirling the crimson liquid to cleanse his mouth from the foul taste of the rancid beer.

"There are fewer than a hundred members of The Order in all. They were busy in the last hundred years or so; they purged this land of any that were not of their own, and likely killed the Thin-Bloods, if they let their lines go."

Their conversation faltered as a guard walked by the pair.

"Regardless, this is the first Vampire attack in centuries; or at least the first Vampire attack so blatant. We must keep our eyes peeled, use our abilities of sight, and see if any of the crowd is not one of the living."

Ronthil complied, shutting his eyes tight and then opening them; a misty veil shrouding the amber glow.

"The guards are mortal, yet a handful appear to be thralls…" he said dreamily.

He blinked back to consciousness.

" _The Jucani Family_!"

Garan's eyes widened. No…

The Wealthy Jucani Family, was one of the most powerful families in the county, if their Patron Albecius's boasting could be trusted.

He opened his eyes to the aura of the Blood magics himself, and could see that the wealthy Nordic Jucanis were not amongst the living.

"Likely agents of The Order, but not the highest branch within Bruma. Let us look farther."

They expelled more of the Blood Magics, and saw noticeable lack of aura within the Palace.

"Members of the Count's Court?" Ronthil asked.

"Or even members of the Count's family…" Garan added.

"Where did you send our guards?" The Dunmer inquired. _He_ still had a single soldier to guard him, and give him the clear appearance of a wealthy noble. They had exchanged the Legionary Armor for the armor of a common bandit they had found lying in wait upon the roadside. However the rest of the band had been stowed away by the Bosmer Vampire.

"Capstone Cave, near Applewatch. There were a few bandits there, but they made short work of them."

"Good. I will send out my guard and alert then to be ready to leave; we may need to approach our brothers and sisters of the Order soon, before the craze fades and they men and women of Cyrodiil go back to normal."

"I have also readied our scapegoat; the old coot never knew I was there. He slept in the next room over, and he was so exhausted and so weak I simply pulled out one of his fangs. We will hand him over to the Order as an offering, and hopefully make our way to their leadership, right Garan?" Ronthil summarized, asking his fellow Vampire to assess his statement.

"Very astute, Ronthil. Now, we wait for the opportune moment to separate and speak to the members of the Order."

* * *

They had hardly waited a day before the Order found them.

Two men in dark robes with glittering finery beneath entered The Jerrall View, flanked by Guards. They entered the small room of Garan and Ronthil, their expressions thunderous.

"So. _You_ are the ones who butchered the bard." the first one said, throwing back his hood.

He was dressed in colovian finery, only just hidden under the heavy folds of his cloak. Around his neck, flashing in the light, sat an amulet of the elder council.

"Nay, sir. We were not the ones who dealt the blow. We have lived by the recommendations of your Order to live civilly and feed peacefully." Ronthil said carefully, eyeing the pair of Guards that had followed the men into the room.

The pair of Volkihar Vampires had pulled a trio of their men from the caverns to guard them within the room, thus the group was very evenly matched.

"An ancient vampire, residing within The Restful Watchman." Garan finished, narrowing his eyes to the visor.

A silence began, stretching on like a void between the two groups.

The second visitor broke the quiet.

"Why are you here, violent Volkihar? You are not simply here to tour our lands and sample our wines, as my guards say you claim to be here to do."

Garan hesitated.

"Can… Your men be trusted?"

"They are highly competent Thralls. Speak freely."

"We come representing our master, recent Master of all Volkihar Vampires in Skyrim. We come seeking an audience, and perhaps an agreement to be arranged with your Order and our Court."

The silence began again, but only for a moment.

The man who had yet to pull back his hood now did, revealing a pointed face akin to a rodent, with black beady eyes and a confident smirk.

"I think that can be arranged. I am Chancellor Motierre." He turned to one of his guards, a man dressed in Colovian Imperial Armor with a closed helmet.

"Rexus, inform the Elder Council that we are to have esteemed guests discussing Order matters."

The Cyrodilic man flashed a fanged grin to the pair of Elves.

"I have a feeling Emperor Tasian will be most pleased to meet you."

* * *

 _This is the Bruma bit :) We will return with Lord Dominus and his movements to drift the peices into place before he makes his strike._


	8. Chapter 8: The Lord's War: Solitude

_Here is the first battle of Skyrim for the Vampires. IF you want a sneak peek at how the statigies for fighting the various areas in Skyrim, I would highly advise you check out Shadiversity and his YouTube channel, he did a series on the castles of Skyrim and Elder Scrolls buildings and their realistic/defensive merits. -Cloaked Writer_

* * *

 _ **~Middas, 20th of Mid Year, Northwatch Keep, North-Eastern Skyrim Coast, 4E 203~**_

Dominus leaned over the stolen map of Skyrim, seized from an imperial encampment within Haafingar.

All around him in Northwatch Keep the sounds of industry and the growls of Draugr filled the frigid night air.

The fort had been abandoned after a large group of Stormcloak sympathizers had sacked it in order to retrieve one of their own, before disappearing within the ranks of the Stormcloaks. While it neatly kept the Volkihar Court away from the messy affair, he had been certain to garrison it before Elenwen ever caught wind of the incident.

Lesser Draugr; undead too weak or inexperienced in the art of war. Minor cooks, squires, and shield brothers in their finite lives now served a greater cause in death: labor.

Sparks flew as the undead warriors sharpened blades with that crimson glow in their eyes, weak and brittle skeletons carrying crates of ingots and tanning large swaths of leather for armor and weapons. Three of the Acolites had been designated to Hestla to aid her in overseeing the creation and distribution of weapons to the new army.

Dominus sat within a stolen tent from the same imperial camp, safely within the shade, yet able to observe the comings and goings of the fortress. Thralls were dressed in the Elven armor of the armory, and were to be posted along the walls as decoys, in case bandits came snooping about with the misguided rumor that the fort was empty.

He wrenched his mind from the walls.

 _Focus, man! Wars are not won with distracted rulers._ he reminded himself.

He traced a lazy line from Solitude to each of the cities in turn, his finger digging into the paper slightly and leaving a crease to mark his presence. Solitude, Markarth, Falkreath, Whiterun, Riften, Windhelm, Winterhold, Dawnstar, Markarth… All would fall soon.

All of the crypts of Skyrim had been painstakingly emptied, the forces marshaled in massive temples or barrows within the hold, under the command of a lesser Lord or Acolyte. He knew Ortholf was personally leading the force to seize Whiterun, despite Garan's frequent warnings against his placement to the position.

Dominus smiled.

The Draugr were loyal to him and to him alone. There was no force that the old Warrior could try that could ever break his hold over the army.

He tapped his finger heavily upon the emblem of the Horse upon the center of the province.

Whiterun was the center, and by far one of the largest holds of them all. It had mountains, plains, woodlands, snowcovered tundra, ore, and limitless potential as the crossroad of trade. Whichever side controlled Whiterun, controlled the province. There would be the formality of destroying the opposition, but the writing on the wall would have already been set in stone.

And he was determined to have the writing on the wall favor _him._

His humble home within the city was now playing host to nearly a half dozen men, with a dozen more kicking about in the local tavern, with a substantial amount of gold in order to ensure they did not raise eyebrows by not paying for food and lodging.

As it was in nearly every major city in the province.

Honeyside hosted a dozen Thralls easily, with more trickling into the city through the convenient passage to the docks and entering the Bee and Barb, with a considerable number now residing in the Ragged Flagon in Riften, and similar actions in Windhelm.

All the pieces were in place.

All he needed now, was for his Chamberlain to report.

If he were to trounce the Empire, he needed to ensure that they knew the blow was coming, if he was to be allys to them.

He did not _truly_ hate the Empire; he desired power. Such mortal nations were below his interests. However, it was a nation ruled by vampires, and he could ill afford a war with his own kind. If their blessing assured, and their legions likely to be significantly withdrawn, he would remove all of the other members in the war, and be the sole faction in the province.

Not a moment too soon, a courier was reported to be speaking to one of the Thralls, who had… persuaded him to give up the note.

He opened it with eager hands;

 _ **My Lord, the Elder Council, and the Order give their blessing. They accept your terms as of the 16th of Mid Year. Commence at your convenience.**_

 ** _-Garan Marethi_**

He could not stop the smile that crept upon his face. He had done it. It was time, to make his move.

He clicked his fingers together, and a petty Draugr knelt at his side.

"Send word to the troops at Volskygge, to make their way to the peaks above Solitude on the Seventh of Sun's Height. They will commence with the plan as scheduled."

It growled in acknowledgment, before marching off to seize a sword before making its journey.

Dominus then set to work. It was an easy task, to duplicate a message multiple times if your quill was sharp enough.

"Thrall!" Dominus called when he had finished his orders to the various Hordes across Skyrim.

One of the Elven armored men materialized at the Dark Elf's side.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Is that Courier still around?"

"Aye, My Lord. He just left after being assured the message entered your hands. Shall we shoot him down?"

"No. Bring him to me."

It had hardly been five minutes before the wide eyed wisp of a man was dragged by both arms into the fort, gasping at the undead soldiers crafting weapons of war.

A simple bite, and he was his.

"I have messages I need you to deliver, with the utmost haste. You will run until your heart bursts if you must. You will rest only at night. Deliver these to their owners, immediately."

"Yes, My Lord."

* * *

 ** _~Loredas, 7th of Sun's Height, Mountains of Solitude, Haafingar, 4E 203~_**

Dominus was smug, as he peered down at the city below him through the twilight hours of the night.

Such a proud little thing, the heart of the Imperial Legion. The art and majesty of the Imperial Heartland and the ties it represented, yet with the Northern flair of the Nords and their boastfully primitive styles of building.

Dominus could not help but equate it to a work of stained glass.

Wondrous. Divine, even, when the light would catch it in the morning and when people looked upon it from afar. However, it was also similar to a stained glass window in strength; a few rocks could damage it.

Taverns sang songs of the Tongues, saving the people of Skyrim of the doom of Alduin in Two Hundred Two, but none would sing of the Chorus of the Lords.

Their Thu'um echoed from the mountains, and he was sure the noise would reach the ears of the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, as the Avalanche of great stones barreled down the mountain to batter the city defences and level the Castle Dour.

A fireball was cast into the air by one of the Thralls, and the battle was begun.

Well, more like the clean up.

The guards were gone. The Citizens, in their confusion, barred their doors and fled to their basements, or chanced a dash for the Dour, or for the Blue Palace.

The Draugr had their orders, as did the Acolyte Marshal Commander: Slay the guards, capture the Palace and the Imperial Leadership, but leave the people unharmed. The Draugr were to be deployed in combat-only areas, dispatching the remnants of the Barracks and the pitiful resistance that the Captain of the guard was attempting in the markets.

Dominus rode down upon the black of Arvak, the dark horse trotting slowly as he was flanked by several deathlords. Their dark chant of triumph and respect echoing above the sounds or ringing swords and gasping flames.

" **Lingrah lahney Drog Konahrik! Lingrah lahney Drog Konahrik!** "

Long live lord Konahrik.

He had given them that name in earnest when he raised them; he doubted their guttural voices could even pronounce his name in the first place, but it was still an intimidating title nonetheless. He rode out amongst the dwindling battle, the swirling ashes, and unto the Blue Palace. He dismounted, and raised his cudgel in a silent signal. The Deathlords and scattered Overlords converged on his position; his honor guard had assembled. And with the guards in place, he marched for the door.

It was a quick victory. The Draugr simply lurched forward upon the terrified Nords, their ebony weapons and sharpened rusted blades pierced their mail and padding, ending the lives if the guards with deep groans as they soiled themselves in their last breaths of life..

Thankfully, only three had to die before the Palace surrendered.

The Housecarl was the worst.

Howling some horrid war-cry, he lunged forward to attack Dominus directly. A nearby Overlord made quick work with his Ebony Axe, severing the fiery head from it's shoulders.

"Dominus, I am disappointed." Elisif said with a huff as she was pulled from her bed by the heavily armored undead.

"To think you defeated Potema, only to enact her plan yourself. You are unworthy of the title of Thane; nay, you are a stain upon the noble name of Dragonborn!"

"Oh, my dear, Potema was a fool. It was the great vision of a necromancer that gave the idea to a Solitude ruled by the Undead…" He flashed a fanged grin.

"But it took a Vampire to get it done."

And with that, he pounced.

With the Jarl as his Thrall, the city could return to peace. The remaining guards were enthralled, and the citizens were placed under a brief tenure of Martial Law. A new Court was established, largely of Warrior Thralls as Bodyguards, yet the Court mage would remain.

Dominus had given her a wry smile after feeding upon the last of the guards.

"Don't think that just because you are a Vampire that I will let you off the hook. You are as much a pawn in all of this as the Thralls. However, prove your worth, and there may be a place for you within our ranks, Sybille."

The Breton Vampire smiled wryly.

"I will keep that in mind. In the meantime, there is a city on fire that needs a government, and unless your Draugr can use frost magic as well as they can push stones, then it would be best if they left the city, _majesty._ " the Breton said with the only amount of disrespect that would be tolerated by the Dunmer.

"Of course. Please keep in mind, you will be under watch while the changes are under way. Loose ends and all of that."

She sighed.

"I expected as much. If it is an issue, I spend my time mostly conducting my experiments and draining the life of the prisoners in the keep, not that it matters to your work."

"Regardless, you will be under a close eye. The guards now all are loyal to me. The Draugr more so. And the night itself has ears that would make my pointed lobes curl. Keep your nose clean - _very_ clean - and there may be a place for you as the ruler of Solitude."

The Dunmer gestured to one of his Deathlords, who sheathed his weapon and stood beside the female Vampire.

"Until we meet again." he said lightly.

He strode from the Blue Palace, and down the city walk. And as he walked, he could not help but feel saddened by the destruction that was so necessary for the good of his people, and for the people of Skyrim.

Restless Draugr and Draugr Scourges cast spells of ice and summoned Frost Atronachs to fish people out of the rubble, and the priests; regretfully dragged out of bed in the middle of the night and under intense guard, cast spells of healing and recovery on the injured.

The populous was largely intact; the damage had largely been directed towards the Castle Dour and the military barracks - and an accidental bonus was the destruction of the Thalmor Headquarters.

Unfortunately, a mortal celebration was underway in the tavern; either the remembrance of a passed family member, or the ascension of a family member into a new year of age, it did not matter.

What mattered was that the building had been smashed by the rockfall.

He cast his spells, utilizing his resistance to flames to enter the burning building and rescue the people.

Only two were dead, the rest suffering from major burns.

It was not ideal, but again, it was necessary.

He would spend the rest of his time enthralling the people of the City to his will. They would _all_ be loyal to him, and they would go about their lives as planned.

The fishermen would fish. The Hunters would hunt. The Bards will play and the drunkards will shout.

But they would do so by his will. They will continue, under his control. Vampires will be able to walk the city streets, and never again fear the wrath of a Mortal Torch.

It would take time. Hell, it would take the greater part of Winter, if not into Spring. But by 204, Skyrim would be theirs.

Skyrim, would be his.

The rumors he would sow would cause desertion, which would only further his chances. The Imperials, so proud, yet so careless. The Camps would either be deserted, or they would band together in The Reach, or Hjaalmarch. Regardless, the Dragon would soon be gone from the face of Skyrim.

Now, to fight the Bear.

Dominus smiled slightly, wondering how best to deal with the Bear of Markarth.

Open Combat? A direct Challenge? An assassin's blade?

Dominus smiled lightly, the thought bringing back memories, of how he turned the Dark Brotherhood.

 _An assassin's blade..._

* * *

 _ **~Fredas, 14th of Mid Year, The Pale, Dawnstar Sanctuary, 4E 203~**_

 _Dominus entered the sanctuary like a ghost, the Blade of Woe gripped tightly in his hand._

 _He knew what he had to do._

 _Cicero's blood was vividly sweet; the pain in the neck of the blade's incision bringing a smile to his face as he relaxed into the Void._

 _"Goodbye, Mother..." he whispered quietly._

 _He drained him dry, before lifting the body from its bed and carrying it from the front door._

 _He undressed the body, leaving him naked as he neatly folded the clothes in a pile beside the corpse, as he set about his butchery, severing the fingers one by one and binding them together with string._

 _CuSith stood by, waiting patiently._

 _He swallowed the fingers whole, but the forearms thankfully gave Dominus more time to cut._

 _Grumbling slightly, he reached into his pack and removed a Forsworn Sword, a gift from an admiring Forsworn damsel._

This _was a weapon meant to sever limbs._

 _after popping the arms from their sockets and gifting them to the demonic Deathound, he set to work on the legs._

 _After spending half a minute contemplating how best to approach the situation, he resolved to simply break the legs of the Jester at the knee caps and sever them that way. A little brutal, but alas, such is life._

 _After gifting the Dog his second calf, Dominus stood and stretched, taking the time to gather the cleaned bones and bury them in the course, gravely earth._

 _He had no doubt that the bones would be dug up by some scavenging Wolf searching for scraps, but at least the murder would be covered._

 _At CuSith's wet chewing grew louder, he turned to see that the deathound had moved on to feat upon the dead Jester's gut, ripping the intenstines out like sausage links and chewing noisily upon them._

 _Dominus sighed lighty, before returning to the sanctuary. He still had work to do._

 _The initiates were interesting; the female with an enchatingly herbal aftertaste to her blood, likely some sort of poison or toxic plant she was ingesting to grant her immunity. The male, however, had a slightly greasy taste to his blood, suggesting that he engaged in lavish foods while away from the sanctuary._

 _Nazir smelled of ink and of his yellowing papers, yet tasted surpsingly ordinary._

 _With that, the sanctuary was his._ They _were his._

 _They were not Thralls, however. They were Vampires. And in order to convince these beings to go along willingly, they would need some sort of excuse, some sort of scape-goat to blame the death of the Jester, the one most loyal to the Night Mother._

 _CuSith was finished with his disgusting meal, and the bones were burried._

 _Dominus then hacked the clothes apart with his blade, and strewed them around the entrance of the sanctuary._

 _"Time for you to go return to the castle." he whispered, petting the decaying snout as he lifted the now shredded hat of the dead jester._

 _He then turned to the black door, and took a deep breath._

 _He held no ill will towards the Jester; he had enjoyed his company, by all accounts. However, the death of honored friends would be a necessary loss to further the cause._

 _Dominus shook his head, with a sadness threatening to battle with the sense of indignation rising up within him._

Sacrificing those close to you for the betterment of the group? _Now_ _he was thinking like Harkon._

 _He lifted the hat, the tears beginning to flow. They were allowed to fall freely, but he was unsure if they were false, or genuine._

 _The Jester would be the last of those to die within his sphere of influence._

 _And with that, he kicked open the black door, rousing all within, and declared with a thundering bellow of rage and emotion, that Cicero was dead._

 _Dawnstar paid heavily as the scapegoat; the story was that a trio of guards had seen him, and ambushed him in the night as he left to use the rest room. The lack of a body was not an issue; CuSith's paw prints sowed the seed of wolves cleaning up the mess._

 _But from the ashes of Cicero, and from the mournful rage as the Dark Brotherhood descended upon the town of Dawnstar, Dominus knew that they would once again be changed._

 _No longer would the Dark Brotherhood live in the shadows of the backwaters, living in the cold and dank. Such days were behind them._

 _The Brotherhood was dead, they all knew it as they feasted upon the blood of the guards in the night of pure and utter murder, going house to house, killing all of the people within._

 _A new day dawned, and the Crimson Scars were born._

* * *

 _Aaaaand Solitude has Fallen to the Vampires. The Imperial back has been broken, and the scattered Legates are ruined. All that remains is breaking the Bear... -Cloaked Writer_


	9. Chapter 9: The Lord's War: Markarth

_The Vampire Armies make their way to The Rift, and the Empire is put to its knees._

* * *

Acolyte Ezra peered out upon the City of Markarth, his amber eyes squinting against the noonday sun.

His forces - some two thousand strong - were camped just out of view of the city, near a Forsworn scouting camp. The Shaman had welcomed them with open arms, having heard of their alliance from their position as the farthest members of Karthspire.

The city's defences were stern: towers gave the illusion of safety to all those who approached on foot or by cart, yet offered little defensive nature once threatened. The gate was incredibly strong; crenellations, arrow slits, and murder holes would make any assault nearly impossible.

They needed aid from the inside.

Thralls had worked hard since they arrived in The Reach, along with massive shipments of Clothes, and cheap armor.

They had nearly elevated the owners of Radiant Raiment in Solitude to Nobil status, before making their trek into the mountains, and they had purchased all the leather and animal hides they could possibly gather, in addition to striping the armor from Bandits and lone guard patrols that stalked the roads.

The Forsworn would enter the city dressed in civilian clothing, and make their way to both the Silverblood Inn and Vlindrel Hall in earnest, lying in wait with a few Thralls in order to make their move.

While they waited, they had not been idle.

The Draugr had set about gathering wood from the nearby scatterings of trees, and managed to painstakingly fashion a trio of catapults for the siege, but he knew they weren't going to hold after a few shots.

Then, the letter arrived.

* * *

 _ **~Loredas, 7th of Sun's Height, Outskirts of Markarth, 4E 203~**_

The catapults fired their bundles of burning wood upon the city, with anticipated ill effect upon the ancient stone city of the Dwemer. The next ammunition was readied, and Ezra knew that it would fight to better effect.

Skulls, seized months ago from the Forsworn Camps with their blessing, and from the shoulders of Lesser Skeletons and Draugr they had brought along with the campaign as a workforce.

Holes were carefully carved, and braced with wood within the brain cavity and within the jaw.

The screaming ammunition let out the shriek of a thousand tortured souls as they entered the city, only to abruptly stop on impact and explode in a blast of enchantment; a gift from the Forsworn Shamans to the army.

The howls lasted from dusk until midnight, the horrid cries masking the seizure of the Gate, Understone Keep, and the dreaded Cidhna Mine easy deeds.

"It's time." Ezra said simply to the Draugr Deathlord at his side. With a sharp growl, it nodded it's heavily armored head and shuffled off to alert the forces.

Within the hour, the City of Markarth had fallen.

Ezra rode at the head of a trio of skittish horses, bearing a pair of Draugr Overlords upon their backs.

Madanach was already within Understone Keep dictating a statement to the captured guards and to Igmund and the remaining Silver-Bloods, with Ondolemar and his Elven guards standing beside him, hands on his fists.

The High Elf, upon sighting the Acolyte left his place beside the King of The Reach and stalked down the steps to meet him, his expression thunderous.

"A Reachman takeover of The Reach was *not* in the Treaty! Mistress Elenwen will never approve of this!"

Ezra rolled his eyes.

The Nord had anticipated this hurtle in the plans of the Court, and brought it to the attention of Lord Dominus.

In response, he duplicated his copy of the Treaty and ensured the war commanders knew all of the clauses and their meanings.

"Lord Dominus, in his meeting with Lady Elenwen, enacted the Treaty of Windstad, which clearly states that the entirety of the Province of Skyrim would be ruled by Lord Dominus and to be used to his own discretion as a sovereign state. There is no statement forbidding the ceeding a hold to another faction. If we desired to surrender to the Empire and return our holdings to them, we could do this."

Ondolemar shook his hooded head.

"Article Three Section Two is in threat by this action. The treaty states that all cities within your Lord's Court are required to host an emissary from the Thalmor-"

"On the contrary, Article Three is to take effect within the lands of the _unchallenged_ Skyrim. The Imperial Legion Remnant and the Stormcloaks still haunt the lands, and thus The Court is still challenged. Furthermore, Article Four - stated to take effect as soon as the first sword was unsheathed against the two factions - declares in Section Three Clause Two that there is to be no infringement upon our sovereignty by your people's Diplomats."

Ezra leaned in close and whispered in the Elf's ear.

"Besides, do you *really* think that anyone other then the Reachmen themselves could ever rule The Reach? Since Tiber Septim, none have been able to pacify this land. They will be a strong ally for the both of us, and will provide a strong buffer for our interests against the Breton Kinglings, Orsinium, and Cyrodiil."

He pulled back, the Elf's face remaining stoically indignant, but the fury had cleared with a shred of understanding.

"I understand your standing on the matter, Commander. I will have inform Lady Elenwen of this turn of events, however. And I do not think she will be pleased."

Ezra shrugged.

"By all means go ahead; I am not a political officer of the Court, I am merely a Military leader. "You may wish to speak with Dominus on the matter, though. He is most… persuasive." he said wryly.

The Elf nodded, the irony of the request lost on him. It did not matter what the stuck up half-mortal thought of their actions.

Markarth, for all intentions and purposes of the Court, was _theirs_.

* * *

the process of pacifying the entirety of the province under Reachmen control took well over two weeks.

Karthwasten alone took three days of ferocious raids before Madanach consented to a covert operation to quietly enthrall the guards and pacify the mine.

Sky Haven Temple, home of The Blades, was terrible.

Hundreds of weak Draugr marched forward in single file, their deaths unveiling the traps and the path towards the main sanctum.

They numbered no more then five, yet they fought with an admirable ferocity.

It was all for not, however.

Their blood was scattered across the hallowed temple, and their heads were severed from their corpses and impaled upon pikes.

Gifts to the Thalmor.

* * *

 _Markarth has fallen to the Reachmen... Which city will fall to these dark creatures in their quest to shepherd the herd?_


	10. Chapter 10: The Lord's War: Whiterun

After LONG last I appear! Ok, I am still doing stuff with life HOWEVER I will be updating more as it is currently summer. Clone General will soon have another few plot points as well as two more chapters of this little story. Without further ado: The Lord's War: Whiterun. -Cloaked Writer.

* * *

City by City, town by town, inn by inn…

It was beginning to drain Dominus's sanity.

But it was necessary; _all_ of the mortals would fall into place under his order and become his thralls.

Not the mindless half-beast thugs, that the Thin Blooded Lords would have positioned outside of their crypts; but true thralls, men and women, and children born and raised to serve.

Markarth Hold was, according to the treaty of Druadach Redoubt, was off limits to the influence of the Volkihar Court; however they allowed the various Nordic crypts that were overrun with Draugr to be used as temporary bases and storehouses for arms and armor, until the sieges of the Orc Strongholds finally gave out and the proud tribes were brought into the stables as powerful beasts of war.

Morthal had been seized easily enough: the Jarl claiming all the while she had foreseen the Dunmer's betrayal.

Old Bat.

However, the final destination before cleaning up Falkreath was to cement control in Whiterun.

* * *

 _ **~Tirdas, 12th of Sun's Height, Whiterun Stables, 4E 203~**_

Something was wrong.

The moon shone differently tonight, or perhaps it was the winds…

Regardless, something was wrong. But he could not specify what caused the sense of apprehension as Dominus, Ronthil, and the throng of armored Draugr stepped from the carriage, manned by a pathetic skeleton dressed in a long cloak.

Ortholf and his horde had carefully infiltrated the city for a full month, smuggling in Thralls and cloaked Draugr to seize and hold the city for his arrival.

But no battle had taken place.

Whiterun Guards stood at their towers, bows right across their backs with full quivers, their swords sharp and spotless. One sniff told Dominus everything:

Thralls.

He had enthralled nearly every single guard.

The damn idiot.

Relinquishing control of a Thrall's mind - not to mention wrenching it from the hands of another Lord - was infuriatingly tricky. From the dusty tomes of Castle Volkihar, and a quiet confirmation from the Prince of Knowledge, all attempts ripped the mind of the Thrall asunder. Fine if you wanted a mindless cattle to walk aimlessly and simply provide sustenance, but useless for a guard.

His eyes narrowed from beneath his hood.

He would have some strong words with his Commander when this was settled.

He nodded to the group to follow him as he strode forward, his cape billowing behind as he lifted his gloved hands and threw open the doors to the city before stalking forward with rage in his eyes.

"My Thane!"

His eyes darted to one side, as the Captain of the Guard stepped from the barracks.

"The Jarl has been expecting you, please follow me."

Dominus sniffed lightly.

Untainted.

"Unfortunately," he said, raising a hand and pointing towards the horde behind him.

"I must ask that your… guards… remain behind. There was an assassination attempt on his Majesty, and while I doubt you have such intentions-"

"Security to the hold comes first." Dominus finished with a sigh.

"Wait here with the Draugr, it shouldn't take too long."

As Dominus followed the Captain, he could not help but be uneasy. Had Ortholf failed? It was unlikely; he was one of the greatest warriors in his corporeal form, disregarding the enchanted form of the Vampire Lord. However, he was arrogant. It is possible he failed and fled the city if he was not hiding in the abandoned passages of the Whiterun Burial Crypts.

The doors to Dragonsreach yawned before him, and Dominus stepped inside at the behest of the Captain.

Despite appearing in Whiterun's Court many times - due to his position as a Thane of the Hold - the magnificence of the structure never ceased to amaze him. Great wooden pillars with a lifetime of stories and legends scrawled upon them in the form of carvings framed the greatly raised throne of the Jarl, sitting handsomely under the skull of an ancient dragon, long since slain by one of his forefathers.

Dominus knelt in a bow before his Jarl, falling to one knee as his cudgel let out a great clunk as the metal weapon made contact with the floor.

Ironic, to bow before a mortal while already a host of immortal fiends and nearly three holds of men answered to him and him alone.

"My Jarl, how do you fare?"

"I have been better. Irileth took an arrow to the eye as she ushered me and my family to safety from the assassins."

Dominus looked up towards the Jarl's bodyguard.

The female Dark Elf was as stoic as ever, despite the white bandage obscuring the entirety of the right side of her face.

"I have heard a fascinating rumor, however…" The Jarl drawled, absentmindedly stroking his long blond beard.

"My Lord?"

"...That you were behind the attempt on my life." He finished, looking down at the kneeling Vampire Lord with a hostile glare.

"My Lord, anyone who would suggest that the Dragonborn would attempt to assassinate you is clearly-"

"I have it," He continued, cutting off the Dunmer.

"From a reliable source, that you planned to enslave my mind."

"Isn't that right, Kinsman?"

Orthalf stepped from the shadows with a harsh clap of his fingers, as every soldier and guard in the hall drew out a hidden crossbow and loaded it with a silver bolt.

Dominus inhaled deeply now and saw the truth: Thralls. Each and every one of them. Masked behind powerful illusions. But…

 _This_ scent was not of Orthalf, it was… fresh, new… unfamiliar.

"Of all the power I could ever dream of," a familiar, bored voice sounded from the right.

"Vampirism is one of the grandest." Faringar declared, holding back balls of fire in his clenched fists.

"You were a fool to trust me with an army, Elf." Orthalf barked; his accented voice clipping.

"I ordered a pathetic attack and had your entire horde butchered the moment I arrived. I broke your thralls and slaughtered your Thin Blooded Lieutenants. Then, after… Enlightening Farengar - the frustrated court wizard - and having my way with the City, all that was left was to wait for you to arrive."

"But, I am not going to kill you with these thralls. No glory. No honor. I'll kill you myself, on my own."

The Nord drew a hatchet from his belt, embedding it within a wooden pillar before seized a two-handed battle-ax from the back of an uncaring Thrall.

"I challenge you, Elf."

Dominus stood, his fingers flexing around his cudgel.

"I accept."

With an Atmoran battle-cry, the Nord hurled himself towards Dominus with supernatural strength, hoisting the ax over his head in a downward arc to cleave the Elven Vampire in two.

Dominus sidestepped, swing wide with his weapon to attempt to catch the Nord off balance-

He hissed as the cold steel of the battle-ax grazed his right cheek.

Orthalf had used a feint and bashed the Elf.

The pair both backed off of one another, the Nord practically bursting with glee.

The so-called 'Master', wounded by such a simple maneuver? Pathetic magic user.

The Elf felt his wound, his gloved hands feeling the light trickle of blood dripping down his cheek as if surprised he was wounded.

He then *smiled*, before hefting his weapon his both hands.

Orthalf's crimson eyes widened.

He had been holding back.

Enraged, Orthalf cast aside his ax and began to morph into the dark form of the Vampire Lord, his bones breaking and reforming in horrible cracks, the scent of blood overwhelming his senses…

Until the internal door to the palace was smashed open, and the dreadful sunlight poured in with the shouts of fury and hatred.

* * *

Dominus stood in the midst of the carnage, a sigh escaping his lips.

Dearest Ronthil, who would most certainly be trusted with a governorship after this, rallied the Captain, and a few men who miraculously remained free from the spell of the traitorous vampires, had rallied together with a mob of angry townsfolk and stormed the palace with murder in their eyes.

Eleven enemy Thralls were dead. Faringar and Orthalf were captured, restrained in silver shackles provided by the Companions.

While the Mortals were expendable, their symbols were not.

The Jarl was dead; slain in the confusion. As were his children; cold and ridged.

Orthalf had slaughtered the entire court, all save Dominus and the Jarl, likely in order to name himself Heir before slaughtering the King.

Balgruuf the Greater was a mortal like any other, yet he had softened his heart more than any of the other Nordic Kings and Lords of the realm. Riften was full of corrupt governance and inadequate leadership, while Falkreath, Dawnstar, and Winterhold were all military zealots, obsessed with war. Markarth was filled with special interests, and Solitude _was_ filled with poor leadership before it had been seized by the Court.

But, all that was over now. He was dead.

"Now what exactly, happened here?" Captain Caius asked, stepping over bodies to stand beside the Dark Elf.

"The Vampires attacked me as soon as I knelt. They slaughtered the entire court and had the Jarl and his guards under their spell. I fought them off, until Ronthil seemed to tell something was off and rallied your forces to storm the palace."

The Mortal shuddered.

"Regardless, I am glad this business is over, Captain." The Dark Elf said, moving to turn away.

"We can now return to the day-to-day business after we execute the traitor-"

"Actually, Sir, we have a… problem."

Dominus turned, a frown creasing his face.

Never, in his now immortal life, had he heard that Captain refer to him as 'sir'.

"What kind of problem?" Dominus said, turning fully to face the man.

"The Court, and the Jarl's heirs have been murdered. Housecarl Irileth, Proventus, they are all gone. Only you remain, my Jarl."

Dominus's breath caught in his throat, shock spreading like a viral disease before the antibody of glee threatened to show itself on his face.

This was better than he could have hoped for.

A clean transition to power, and a legitimate way to the Throne of Skyrim, no less.

Dominus approached the Throne and sat upon it, lounging with his elbows resting upon the arms as his fingers folded.

"There will be an execution at noon. Spread the word. It will be at the foot of the Shrine of Talos, in the Winds District. Inform Heimskr that he will need to cease his preaching of the Man-God and make way for the Hold's Justice."

He bowed slightly at the hip.

"Certainly, My Jarl."

The crowd hissed and spat curses as the two vampires were brought out in chains, gagged and holding back tears as the sun singed their undead skin.

A common Iron ax severed the head of the Nord Vampire from his shoulders, his last look of anguish forever emblazoned upon his face.

A nameless guard had dealt the blow. A symbolic gesture, to the vampire: even a powerful man can fall to a mortal.

Orthalf was the next to die, and Dominus had planned quite a spectacle for him.

The thrumming of aetherial magic filled the air as a bound battleax appeared in Dominus's hands, the shimmering blue weapon pulling on the air around it. He knelt to the kneeling vampire, sitting pitifully on his knees while he glared malevolently at his foe.

"Let it be known that it was magic, that ended your life. I give you an ax. May it serve you well in Coldharbour." he whispered, before nodding to the Draugr that held him in place to push him to the ground.

The crowd erupted with cheers as the magic ax fell, guards banging the hilts of their swords to their shields and warriors letting out boisterous battle-cries.

Someone began to chant the praises of Dominus, which quickly devolved into a great call: Long Live Dominus.

And he smiled.

Dawnstar was in ruins, but his Advisor would be dealing with that. Winterhold would be seized with ease within the next few days, as the Mages would be too busy studying to deal with matters of a civil war.

All that truly remained was Riftin, and Windhelm.

And in truth, they did not worry him.

Let Ulfric scare the bandits into joining his cause. Let the Dawnguard launch fruitless attacks against his court. It was far too late to unseat him now.

* * *

Whiterun has been brought into the fold, and plans are being drawn for the fate of Dawnstar... Mwa haha (lol) I am sorry I have not been able to update, I am now out of school and am in the process of looking for a job sooooo I have a lot of time on my hands haha. I will be posting my stories more regularly and will hopefully finish this one and get at _least_ a few arks in the Clone Wars series, hopefully finishing it before 2019. But, that is in the future. Until then, ~Cloaked Writer.


	11. Chapter 11: The Lord's Kindness

_Here we go with the next bit of Glass. What is Garan up to..._

* * *

 _ **~Middas, 13th of Sun's Height, The Grey Quarter, 4E 203~**_

Aval Atheron let out a breathy sigh, sitting down before the fire and kicking off his boots.

Another tiresome day.

He lifted his bare feet upon the flagstones and held them close to the winking coals that provide most of the heat to the building.

The ungodly loud creak of the door and the string of swears following a distinct crunch indicated one of his siblings was home from work as well. And from the specifically colorful cursing, he knew it was his sister.

"How are the docks, Suvaris?"

"Miserable as usual. Those Argonians hardly seem to lift a claw when I'm not breathing down their ba- Is this yours?"

Aval turned his head, to see his sister standing by the table with a folded note in between her middle and index finger.

"No." he replied, puzzled. He did not notice _that_ when he came in.

"Maybe it's Faryl's; he should be back by now-"

The slamming of the door, followed by another slam as the door was opened and swiftly shut to keep back whatever they could against the bitter wind.

"By Azura, another storm's blown in. I'll never be able to pick the crops in this-"

He stopped, looking at the page in his sister's hand before a light grin spread over his face.

"Oh ho, has someone a secret admirer?"

"We thought it was yours, you dung-brained n'wah." She said sourly, sticking out her tongue to her older brother as she opened the note and began to read.

Her face was relaxed and light-hearted, but after a moment the smile vanished from her face and her grip on the note tightened.

"Someone broke in here and left this note!" She all but shouted.

The siblings all crowded around her and read the note over he shoulder.

* * *

 _To the Residents of this Household~_

 _I apologize for breaking and entering, but there is a matter of grave importance I must discuss with you involving your future. Meet me in the New Gnisis Cornerclub on the 13th of Sun's Height. Bring every other Dunmer you know._

 _Yours in good health._

* * *

"I don't care if it is some damn Nord Drunkard. I am going and taking my knife. I will stab this bastard for breaking into this house."

"Now hold on sister, let's not be rash-"

"Damn you, Aval! We can't stand for this! The Guard's won't lift a finger to help a Dark Elf, not in this miserable cesspool of a city. We may as well do our own justice.

"Sister, you are missing the point. Arval is right: Clan Shatter-Shield are your friends, they can pull enough strings to find out who entered our home and why-"

The argument was interrupted by a loud pounding on the door.

Suvaris flashed a burning glare to her brothers before she straightened her shoulder-length black hair and approached to see who it was.

"Sadri! What are you doing out so late? With the last Butcher murder-"

"I know, I know. But listen: I got a message left in my strongbox amongst the gold I keep in there, that told me of some opportunities to get out of here. I'm meeting this guy at the Corner-Club; bring your brothers and let's hurry!

* * *

The New Gnisis Cornerclub - seemingly the only refuge in Windhelm for the Dark Elves to drink away their sorrows, was usually empty, save for a few people getting breaths of fresh air and diving back in for a few more rounds of Sujmma.

Tonight was different.

No one was there for drinks, but everyone was there on account of an unusual note left upon nightstands and in the display cases of merchants.

"Why did you break into our homes, you filthy thief!" someone from the crowd shouted to the man in the center of the Cornerclub, standing upon a table trying to calm the group.

"Listen to me, all of you! I am Ravyn. I am a member of the Thieves Guild, and we were contracted recently to do a simple job-"

"What, trying to lead us out here and rob our houses!" Suvaris cried.

"No! A smuggling job, we are here to get you out of here!"

The bar quieted a moment before Aval spoke up.

"Why should we trust you?"

Ravyn shook his head.

"Look, we don't like getting involved in wars. Its bad for business and can ruin a reputation. Not to mention it gets people hurt that don't need to be. But we were approached by the leader of the New Skyrim Army, and contracted to get you to safety."

"The New Skyrim Army…" Suvaris murmured to her brothers.

The New Skyrim Army had exploded from the hills of Solitude, a phantom force of unknown size and origin. Travelers and couriers that did business with them spoke of their declaration: to free Skyrim from the yoke of the Dominion, yet continue a healthy relationship with their Empire as allies, instead of subjects.

The Imperial forces that did not respect the decree were broken in a matter of days. The word on the roads and of the Khajiit Caravans told that Solitude fell in an instant - as did Morthal and Falkreath - before Whiterun sided with the new entity.

What was more, the Shadowy face of this new group, was revealed to be none other than a Dark Elf, now acting as Jarl of Whiterun of all places.

"We have several dozen carriages and carts to transport you and your possessions to a new home, a place where you will truly be free to set up your own society. It will take some time to get there, but the reward will be that you will never have to take the boot of the Nord again!" Ravyn declared, raising his fist in the air. A loud cheer of approval sounded from the motley band of Elves.

"What are we waiting for! Let's get going!"

"Wait! What about the guards?"

"The Guards have been bought off and will turn a blind eye. All you need to do is get a move on before the snow sets in."

* * *

 ** _~Windhelm Stables, Eastmarch, 4E 203~_**

"Well done, Ravyn," Garan said, the amber glow of his eyes peeking out from under his hood.

"You will certainly earn a bonus if you manage to get them to keep moving at this pace."

"I was always known for my speed, m'lord."

"Also, there was a… personal, favor my Lord wished to inform you of."

The Dark Elf thief raised an eyebrow.

"The Dark Brotherhood is no more."

The Elf's breath caught in his throat.

"What?"

"Some time ago, they were nearly all slain. Only a few survived, managing their infamous assassination of the previous Emperor. However, their… home base of operations was not as hidden as they would have believed, and they were raided by a Hold's guards. The Hold in question - Dawnstar - was burned to the ground in retribution, but the order has formally disbanded."

"How do you know of this?"

"Because my Master has one of their former members serving dutifully and loyalty as a servant," Garan said casually. He leaned forward, a wry smile on his face.

"You no longer need to look over your shoulder anymore, Mighty Tong. Your rivals are gone."

They grasped forearms in a common symbol of thanks.

"There are no words… Tell him I send my thanks."

"Of course. But, do not let this good fortune impair the mission. You are to escort them to the collection point, where you will have your payment given. Here is a bit of… encouragement, to ensure that you continue doing your job professionally."

A glint of blue in the shadows indicated a gemstone as it sailed through the frigid air and into the waiting palm of the thief.

"I have to ask… Why not have the Companions do this? Big warrior types, happy for the honor for little pay, seems like their type of job in all honesty. Why bother with thieves?"

Garan simply smiled before melting into the night with such skill to make a master burglar envious.

"The Thieves Guild doesn't meddle in politics, but they can be bought. The Companions are too resolute." The elder Dark Elf said, his voice seeming to echo all around the thief.

"Do your job, brother. Get your pay. You might even be remembered in the hearts of these people."

* * *

 _ **~Fredas, 10th of Last Seed, New Mournhold, The Pale, 4E 203~**_

Dominus breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of the sea from the porch of the Windpeak Inn, taking a sip of hot mead.

The Dunmer refugees were all smiles and all teeth, gladly working the mines and the docks, crafting inexperienced works of armor and mixing alien Dunmeri potions.

The buildings, made of the local wood and stone, were designed in the Redoran style of domed, organic curved buildings delving underground, yet with the northern flare of pine wood and harsh stone as building materials.

Lord Dominus smiled, content.

"With this, those abroad will be entranced and fawn over our humanitarian rescue of these folk. Perhaps we could similarly relocate the Argonians?" He asked, turning to Garan.

The Dark Elf Vampire stood beside his Lord, an untouched and cooling bottle of mead in his hand.

"I am unsure if we would be able to relocate enough without causing serious suspicion and become drawn into conflict with the Stormcloaks before our armies are adequately prepared for the Eastern Campaign."

"You have a point, Brother."

Dominus pondered a moment, taking a sip of the mead.

"Regardless, the Orc Tribes of Dushnikh Yal and Mor Khazgur will have fallen by now, and our forces will have begun to clear out of the area and solidify our holdings. Now that Falkreath has been pacified after the fiasco of that damn traitor in Whiterun, we will soon hold all of the Province. We must look into what we are to do after the final push. Who whall we fight? And who shall we befriend?"

"Well… The Aldmeri Dominion believe us a vassal state, while the Empire considers us a secret ally… War will be inevitable, and we will be forced to choose a side. They will… likely march either through Southern Hammerfell or through the south of Cyrodiil. It would be easy to rally the Reach to war against the Empire, perhaps stamping it out permanently by terminating High Rock and annexing the ruins of Orsinium… But the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order would never tolerate such an insult…" Garan reasoned.

"The longer the life the longer the grudge." Dominus agreed.

"But if we are to sever ties with the Dominion, we will need to move quickly. Seize the embassy, perhaps have Vingalmo play diplomat and continue sending messages back and forth in order to keep them blind to the threat, then… I am not sure, perhaps barter our way into a triumvirate with the Bretons and the Redguards, perhaps eventually corrupting them and sinking our claws into their political machines."

"I would advise extreme caution, my Lord. The Political machine of the five Kingdoms of High Rock and the rivalry between the Crowns and the Forbears in Hammerfell, including the knife's edge of dueling the Thalmor in espionage is a deadly game to play that had ended in the failure of the finest diplomats. However, you are wise. You should prevail."

"Thank you, friend." Dominus said with a smile, saluting bottles with his kinsman.

"I do not understand how you stomach this drink, my Lord," Garan said, pulling a face after he took a drink and smacked his lips.

"It is quite a sweet drink, this Black-Briar mead. I personally prefer Flin if I can get it, but this is the best and most plentiful they have here."

"No, I mean mortal drink in general, my liege."

"Ah. Well… I do enjoy the simple warmth against my mouth, either in the form of… nectar," He said, pausing as a pair of Dunmer walked past, chatting to one another loudly.

"Or mead, or several different breads. The feel of my fangs cutting through a warm, crisp loaf on a crisp morning, a cup of lukewarm Flin at my side… That would make my mortal morning."

The Lord turned to see his advisor looking utterly confused.

He rolled his eyes.

"Granted, the food does not affect my hunger or thirst anymore, but the flavor is still something to savor among my wife and children." He explained, turning to lean on the railing and face the Dunmer.

Garan grinned.

"How is your family? I presume you met with them when you pacified Falkreath?"

"Well-"

"My Lord!"

Dominus turned to see a fur-clad Nord rushing forward - an Enthralled Bandit, by his crude weapon - with terror in his eyes.

"Soldier, what is the matter?" he asked, his crimson eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"The Dawnguard, Sire. They have allied with the Stormcloaks- The pass…"

"What has happened?" Dominus shouted, casting aside his mead - the warm drink melting the snow as the bottle sank with a muffled clunk into the snow - as he seized the man by the collar and lifted him off his feet.

"Lakeview… The Dawnguard Army attacked Lakeview…"

He released the man, standing motionless as the Nord coughed for breath.

Garan was unable to see the back of his Lord, but his rage was burning bright enough to melt the Ice of the Sea of Ghosts.

"Send word to all our forces, and to the force seizing Winterhold. Riften and Winterhold are to attack immediately. All pretense is out the window - go loud - I have something I must do."

He sped off at a fast walk towards his Shadowmere, mounting him in a single stride.

"My Lord!" Garan said, dropping his bottle with a heavy thud and chasing after his Master.

Dominus began at a trot, causing the Dunmer Chamberlain to jog in order to keep up.

"Sire, please, don't do something drastic. We will get our revenge-"

"I am going to my family, Garan. I will see you in Falkreath."

* * *

 _The Plot Thickens! mwahaha... BTW it will get a lot darker from here on out, and I mean A LOT darker to the point where I will mention it in the story description to avoid uncomfortable readers. On another note, The General will have a new story out VERY SOON, I am working on the new story Ark, but I need to watch the episode in order to get the plot and dialogue right, which required a day just to get it all right. Furthermore, this story is getting over hump number 1 and getting intot he deep andd ark curve before the next hill of this plot rollercoaster. Anywho, I hope you all have a good day; adios -Cloaked Writer_


	12. Chapter 12: The Lord's Tragedy

_Dominus rides like the wind to his family, and we learn how kind a Vampire father can truly be..._

* * *

 _ **~Fredas, 10th of Last seed, Pale Hold/Whiterun Hold border, 4E 203~**_

Shadowmere moved as fast as an ebony arrow piercing through the moonlit night and as silent as a mist traveling over snow.  
He had no time for a casual ride.

His family was in danger.

* * *

 _ **~Fredas, 12th of Sun's Height, Lakeview Manor, Falkreath Hold, 4E 203~**_

"Papa! You're back"

Dominus turned from his carriage towards the young voice with a smile stealing its way onto his lips as his son and daughter ran out to greet him.

"Sofie, Blaise!" He said with a laugh as they ran forward and nearly knocked the Vampire Lord off of his feet due to their ferocious hug.

"How have you both been while I am away?"

"Mama took us down to the lake, and I managed to wrestle a hu-uge Slaughterfish without getting bit!"

"Miss Riva taught me some sword techniques, and Mama helped teach me a little magic,"

"Children, let your father breathe!"

Ysolda was dressed in a fine dress; an exquisite fur trim of an enchanted beast standing out against the crimson silk-like velvet as her face wore a bemused smirk.

"I am going to presume *you* were involved in delivering this here? The Courier said Radiant Raiment sent this along with no charge…"

She was cut off as her husband embraced her in a warm embrace, kissing her softly.

"I have so much to tell you, so much to tell you all. But let's head to the shade, the sun is beginning to hurt my eyes."

"Pop? I have a question." Blaise asked as he held open the door for his adoptive father, who was holding a hand up in a feeble attempt to snuff out the sun.

Dominus breathed a sigh of relief as he stood in the candlelit hall of Lakeview Manor.

"Ask away my boy, ask away." He replied, handing his cape to the steward.

"Do you ever wish you weren't a vampire?"

Dominus stiffened.

Then he smiled as he approached his son.

* * *

 _After speaking to his wife the moment after they were both turned, they knew what must be done._

 _"Blaise, Sofie! Please come here! Your father and I need to talk to you both."_

 _"What's going on, Mama?" Blaise asked as he sat in a chair at the table._

 _"We did all our chores, did we miss a spot when we swept?" Sofie inquired._

 _"You both are nearly adults, and we need to have an important conversation…"_

 _The pair of preteens laughed, causing Ysolda to flash Dominus an I-told-you-so look that only wives knew how to perfect._

 _"Not_ that _talk, you two. A talk about life, and about the things that are in it." Dominus said flatly, though closing his eyes and sighing._

 _The pair of children calmed down, wiping away their tears and calming their squeaking laughter._

 _"What kind of things dad?" Blaise asked, the ghost of his smile burned by a thirst for wisdom that Dominus was all so proud of._

 _"There are creatures in this world that you must be made aware of. Monsters, beasts, and other creatures and how to defend against them, and to understand them."_

 _They were both silent, carefully listening to their father._

 _It had not been the first time he had given them such a lesson._

 _Once, a rogue giant had wandered into their woods and harassed their livestock._

 _Yet instead of sending his family away, he told them to watch how to slay it as he strode from the porch, sword in hand._

 _As a result, the pair of children often insisted to be the ones to go out and fight the giants whenever one was foolish enough to think it could exact tribute from the Home of Cruor, much to the entertainment of the house's guard._

 _"Now, there are creatures of beast-like intelligence that I am sure you have heard calling in the night after you come back from play. You know of wolves, bears, and trolls; all afraid of fire, and all lacking intelligence. However, there are creatures out in the wilderness that are wise, and though they are dangerous, they must be respected in their own right." Dominus said, his story_ beginning _to weave its way into the understanding of the children._

 _"To start, there are the Spriggans and the Wispmothers. Both are creatures that are violent should they be disturbed, but they are also creatures of great enchantment and grace; a grace that was lured many an inexperienced or knowledgeable traveler to their death. The Spriggans- Well, I have one in the trophy room, let's pay her a visit, shall we?"_

 _The door to the trophy room - a construct from Dominus's mortal days, when he was fascinated in flaunting the stuffed or collected trinkets of his fallen foes in a room to proclaim his excellence - whined due to disuse, a muttered spell igniting the candles in the room and evaporating the dust._

 _"Here she is. Wooden, seven feet tall, and entirely mute save for the high pitched yells they will emit from their very soul; beings of nature that haunt enchanted groves, and create peace within the woods. However, they view the Mortal Races of Tamriel as threats to this balance, and will break their vows of peace in order to attack those that trespass in their home, as will the Wispmothers if anyone trespasses upon their tombs."_

 _He turned to the children._

 _"You have nothing to fear, however. There is nothing in these woods. You will never be harmed here."_

 _"I have heard stories of the Wispmothers and the Spriggins, but I thought they were just stories…"_

 _Dominus let out a hearty laugh, before pointing to the corner of the room._

 _A dragon's skull dominated the entire side, it's teeth glinting in the candlelight._

 _"Stories claimed the Dragons were just legends, but_ that _was in no dragon mound, my children."_

 _"Yet there are just a few other creatures that I must tell you, then that will be all. The first is Werewolves; men who turn into wolves under the full moon. Their legends are self-explanatory; they turn into beasts under the full moon, and are vulnerable to silver blades."_

 _Sofie looked petrified, as Ysolda went to comfort her._

 _"However," Dominus said softly._

 _"They are just men in a different skin. Some, of course, are bad and will hunt people. But there are packs, who have been very kind to me."_

 _"You have met one?" Blaise said incredulously._

 _"Yes. I have met several, actually. They are very kind. During the day time, if you would like, I can see if we can meet them in whiterun."_

 _He looked towards his daughter Sofie._

 _"After all, they are just big puppy dogs after all."_

 _"But the stories say they are scary!"_

 _"I did say look to the stories, but sometimes stories exaggerate in order to keep the story alive; to keep people afraid and telling the story. No one would tell the story of the sweet puppy dogs around a campfire to scare people, so they have to invent stories to make things darker than they appear," Dominus lied, soothing his daughter._

 _"There is one group that has had stories paint them as the darkest and most horrible of people, yet who are in truth quite beautiful and honorable people."_

 _Sofie and Blaise looked to one another, then to Dominus expectantly._

 _"The Vampires, are seen as dark creatures, and many can be. However, the rulers of the Vampires in Skyrim, are polite folk, only fighting villains and crooks who pose a threat to-"_

 _"Crooks? Not Black Mask Jack, right?" Sofie asked, referencing a character from her bedtime stories, causing Dominus to smile._

 _"No, not Black Mask Jack. But the Crooked Red King and his men."_

 _"So they are heros, hates by the law yet loved by the people in secret?" Blaise asked._

 _"Yes, something like that-"_

 _"That's cool!" He interrupted, standing up and raising his hands._

 _"I wonder if the girls are prettier than the Blue Gem, and her posse of Horse Riders…" Sofie said dreamily, referencing yet another bedtime character._

 _"Would you like to meet one of the good Vampires?"_

 _"Sure!"_

 _"Sure,"_

 _"I knew you would both say that, so I invited a guest for you both to meet." Dominus said, waving to the secretly Enthralled Steward to open the door._

 _Ysolda stood as the children rusted towards the hall and began to whisper in her husband's ear._

 _"Dear, please tell me it's one of the more… tame, members of the Court? If one of those feral lowbloods-"_

 _"I was clear that she was to feed before coming here. Besides, she-"_

 _"She?"_

 _"Darling, we are both Vampires, and only our love will warm my frozen heart. Besides, she is nearly four eras my senior."_

 _The doors opened, and Serana entered, only just giving her enough time to give a friendly wave to her compatriot Dominus before she was swarmed by a pair of children asking incredible questions about turning into bats and flying in the night._

 _"You will have to excuse my children, they only just learned there are good Vampires in the world." Dominus said with a laugh and Serana smiled as she lifted both children into her arms and carried them to the now giggling couple_.

* * *

It had been nearly two years since he had adopted his children; his daughter from the frozen city of Windhelm, and his son from the rancid edges of the golden city of Solitude. Age had begun to show it's light on the pair; they had both grown taller, and had begun to show the signs of growth between the stage of life of child and teenager.

"Sometimes I do wonder what would have happened if I did not accept my gift. But you see, in being a vampire you gain age without any true consequence. And with age, you gain wizdom rival to all of the colleges combined. And from then, you become wiser overall."

He knelt down instinctively to look his son in the eye, but once on one knee, he found that he was not looking up to his son.

By Azura, had they grown…

"Sometimes, I wonder what it is like. But I enjoy this power. I will be strong and healthy forever, and able to play with you both as long as you want."

"But you have been gone away for so long!" Sofie said in a huff.

"I know, dear; I know. I have had important work that I must inform you all about."

He motioned towards the main hall and the grand table that lay within.

He waited until they were all seated, before speaking.

"Ysolda, my children. We are no longer going to live in this house."

Ysolda frowned, and the children began their protests.

"But it's so fun here!"

"There's all kinds of fun bugs to catch-"

Dominus simply waited for them to pause, before he spoke again.

"Because, we are moving into the Dragonsreach Palace of Whiterun.

The children were silent, and it was Ysolda who spoke up.

"Dragonsreach? Darling, are you sure the Jarl…"

"Due to an insurgent attack, Jarl Balgruuf no longer sits upon the throne, and I have been elevated to the Throne. You, are all royalty now." Dominus said, his words saddened at the loss of his favorite mortal.

"We should begin packing immediately then!" Sofie said, no doubt her thoughts wandering to her collection of dresses beginning to gather space in her trunk.

"Wait! I want to know what Pop had been doing all this time. Do you have any new stories? Any new tales about saving the world?"

"Careful, Blaise!" Ysolda said from the other side of his Sister.

"Once your father gets going on one of his stories of his adventures, we'll be here all winter!" She said with a knowing smile to her husband.

* * *

"Wow! So now you rule Skyrim?" Blaise asked, his mouth full of food.

"Blaise, make sure you chew with your mouth closed." Ysolda said firmly.

"Oops," he said, before swallowing and apologizing.

"It's not quite as simple as holding solitude, I have to first fight the Evil Dawnguard, and to do that I have to fight the Dark King Ulfric Stormcloak, before he lets out a shout to call the dragon's back!" Dominus said in his traditional storytime embellishment.

They all knew without looking out the clouded glass windows that night had fallen; Dominus was always more energetic and entertaining when night came around.

"Papa, why do you want to rule Skyrim?" Sofie asked, setting down her soup spoon.

Dominus frowned, putting a hand on his chin as he thought of an answer that would satisfy his daughter.

"Skyrim… is torn in two, between two groups that have a simple disagreement, but one that has caused them to tear families apart, turn brother against brother and end the lives of too many men and women. So, I am getting involved to stop it. I have studied and know the best way to rule the land in the way that will help it's people… For instance; Say you are a farmer. Should you collect _all_ of the grain when it is ready, save none for later, and eat lots and lots of bread, only to starve once winter arrives? Or should you harvest it all, save some for later, and use what you can?"

Dominus cut a bite of his venison and lathered it in the marinade.

"The Imperials and Stormcloaks are fighting over what kind of bread to make today and tomorrow. I am fighting to ensure everyone has enough grain for the entire winter."

"Papa?"

Dominus turned, the candle catching the glow of his eyes.

"Yes, Sofie?"

"...I keep having nightmares that you won't come home. What if the bad guys win, what if you lose, what if-"

Dominus brought her close in a hug and gave her a kiss on the top of her head.

"Dearest, do you remember the time Black Mask Jack was sneaking into the ancient city of Markarth, and the Crooked Red King caught him and sent him into the silver mine?"

She nodded.

"He got out, his friends were there to save him. The most beautiful Blue Gem and her riders rode out and saved him and left the Crooked King without a crown."

He pushed his finger against her cheek.

"I have friends too. The strong Serana, and other friends just like her that help me. I will always come back here."

She smiled, her eyes slipping slightly as Dominus gently guided her back down to her pillow.

He blew out the candle with one icy breath, and made to leave the room-

"Pop, what if the bad guys try to get us? Black Mask Jack hasn't gotten out of something like that…"

Dominus smiled, allowing his eyes to glow a friendly orange to illuminate his son as he embraced him.

"They are too scared of your old man. They will never come here, or else I'd get 'em."

"Never?"

"Never."

* * *

 ** _~Fredas, 10th of Last Seed, Lakeview Manor, Falkreath Hold, 4E 203~_**

The house was a charred husk, smoke blakening every surface. The table had half collapsed, while the kitchen's oven and the house's pair of smoke stacks remained upright, the ashy frame was hardly standing.

Dominus took a deep breath.

Then he opened his eyes.

Not in the ways unobservant mortals would - or how he searched for items of interest in his mortal days - no, the gaze of a Vampire was absolute. And the Vampire Lord…

Nothing could escape his sight.

He saw a smattering of footprints - no, boot prints - all around the front of the house and approaching the balcony steps. Dirt was ground into the wooden platform, and the stairs showed the slight curvature of someone - or a group of someones - running quickly up and down the stairs.

The blackened remains of the house seemed regular; no instance of any attack from the inside.

The source of the fire was clear; oil. An abandoned drum of the lightly colored fluid had been left behind by the attackers.

Someone had broken the front door from the inside, with the scattering of wooden beams indicating it had been barred, and the inhabitants were expected to burn alive.

These prints were fresher than the others, and quickly vanished; replaced by hoofprints.

The attackers had set the fire and left, assuming they would die, but they escaped on horseback.

"So someone got away," Dominus breathed to himself, a shudder escaping him.

He looked to the charred piles of ash, and to the skeletal hand that sat limp under a dusting of inky black dust.

"So who were you?" He muttered to himself.

He quickly dragged to skeleton - still held together by the tatters of it's clothes and remaining ligaments - to inspect its hands: no ring.

He let out a gasp of relief. It wasn't Ysolda.

But who was it?

Reaching into the ash once more - his leather gloves ruined by the char - a brass instrument of some sort emerged.

The bard.

A worthy Thrall. He made a note to erect a memorial to the servant, for faithfully serving to the end; blasting his horn to alert everyone of the attack.

So *that* was why the attackers fled; the Horde stationed in Falkreath likely heard the sound, and rushed to aid, bringing riders on horseback as well.

A harsh cough entered Dominus's ear.

Putting his foot through the trapdoor separating the manor from the basement, he cast a fireball in one hand, caging it within his fists to provide light.

The basement - once filled with unique treasures and armor, not to mention an exquisite set of shrines to the Nine Divines - had been completely looted.

All that remained was Rayya.

"What happened?" Dominus demanded, lifting the dying woman by the collar of her armor.

Dominus did feel bad to lose such a capable warrior such as the housecarl, but warriors can be trained. Warriors can be replaced. The words on the lips of a dying woman could not.

"They came… by night… I failed you, my master… I failed."

"No, they got away. I saw the tracks. My family is safe. You did your job well-"  
"No!"

Rayya stopped, devolving into a fit of coughs as she sank down.

"I failed… I failed…"

"What do you mean? How did you fail me, girl; *how did you fail?*"

"I failed to protect them…"

"I failed to…

"Protect…"

"Them all…"

* * *

We will soon learn who did not make it... -Cloaked Writer.


	13. Chapter 13: The Lord's Rage

_The Vampire Lord Dominus goes to his family._

* * *

 _ **~Fredas, 10th of Last Seed, Falkreath City, Falkreath Hold, 4E 203~**_

The quaint lumber town and guardian of the great graveyard of brave warriors of Skyrim's past was on lockdown by the time Dominus arrived.

His family was being protected in the Jarl's longhouse, the enthralled population and the Draugr army encircling it with defenses and troops.

But his tred was heavy as he entered the longhouse to speak with his family.

What was left, of his family.

Ysolda was in tears as she embraced him, her glowing eyes shining brighter than usual. His boy was sad, but his tears seemed to be more of frustration or anger than of fear.

For they mourned the loss of one of their own.

"I have sent soldiers to collect her body. She should be buried in Falkreath, for her bravery." Dominus said solemnly to his wife who wept against his armored chest.

"She held her dagger that you gave her and fought the soldiers attacking Rayya. The stubborn girl got a good stab in I hope."

Dominus put a hand on his boy's shoulder.

"Blaise?"

"I want them to pay." He said darkly.

"They need to pay for what they did. Not like in your bedtime stories but really pay, to make them hurt!" He said, working himself up to a yell that echoed throughout the hall.

Dominus winced as a small amount of pride swelled within him despite the awful situation.

"You will make a fine king someday, my son," Dominus said quietly.

For his sorrow was heavy in his cold heart, but a dragonfire had been lit in his core, a burning desire for revenge.

* * *

 _ **~Loredas, 25th of Last Seed, Ruins of Lakeview Manor, Falkreath Hold, 4E 203**_

Toryrd was nervous.

Ok, that was a lie and he knew it. He was one false shadow away from soiling himself, and he didn't care what his partner Jolar thought about it.

Why, why them?

Again, he knew why, but _why…_

The letter that made its way to them via skeletal courier spoke of a summit to negotiate the Vampires leaving Skyrim forever for islands across the sea, and requested Isran come negotiate with the head of the Vampire clan, and that he himself would be arriving with a small group in order to defend himself from brigands and any foul play, but had no ill intentions 'beyond what they had done'.

Isran, as he was not a fool, sent others to treat with him. If it was true, then great: the vampires would be gone and the whole menace would be cleaned up in less than a year.

And to be fair, it was well overdue to be swept under the rug.

The Vampires had grown bold, apparently making organized attacks against military groups and, according to rumor, a Vampire had infiltrated the Jarl of Whiterun's court and assassinated him.

But if things were a trap…

The host of light archers creeping in the shadows and on the mountain's sharp edges would be able to kill most of them.

Of course, that led to the current predicament, where he and his partner lost the draw to be the ones in the middle of it all. The 'emissaries'.

The bait.

True to his word, the leader of the Vampires was indeed where he had said he was to be.

A table had been set up with a variety of aged cheese, fine bottles of wine along with jugs of expensive looking ale, along with a few cuts of cured meat all illuminated by gentle candlelight; as if this was an evening soiree not at all held on the ashes of a burned house.

At his side stood two heavily armored figures wielding polearms, while the Dunmer himself held a great cudgel like a staff.

"Welcome, Isran! I hoped you would make it!" He called in a bizarrely cheery voice upon seeing the two approaching figures. However, his hell eyes narrowed when he saw that neither of the two men were the Redguard leader of the Dawnguard.

"Isran sends his apologies, but he caught an unfortunately bad chill and was unable to attend." Jolar bleated.

"A shame. But, this will do of course. You were authorized to treat with us in his stead, yes?"

"Yes, we have his blessing," Jolar said blandly.

"Excellent. In that case, let us proceed." The Vampire Lord said, removing his macabre clawed gloves and setting them on the table.

However, he made no immediate move for parchment or quill, instead pouring a glass of Alto wine and airing it.

"Tell me, gentlemen, do you know what this house was?"

Neither of them reacted. What was this, some sort of trick?

The Dunmer Vampire continued, taking a sip of his wine.

"This, was my home. I built it you know. Every timber, every nail, hammered in with my own two hands.

He lifted his hand, and Toryrd could see that he was telling the truth. The hand was scarred and blistered, showing long years of hard work.

"In fact, my family lived here. Oh, where are my manners? Feel free to cut yourself some cheese, there should be a knife over on your side of the table." The Vampire said, pointing with two fingers down the table.

Toryrd, confused but looking for something to do with his hands, took the dagger in question and made to cut into the wheel of cheese. However, he was stopped by its sheer beauty. An Elven dagger, for cutting cheese at a table?

"Oh how silly of me, that is not a cheese knife. It is the knife that once belonged to my daughter. She was the girl you slew in the attack of this very house."

The warmth was gone in the Dunmer voice, his eyes hard and icy.

"Fighting Vampires is one thing, as is sending your pathetic scouting expeditions to Castle Volkihar, but you dared, _you dared,_ to attack my family. The gloves are off. I will feast in your Fort Dawnguard and paint every brick red with the blood of your fellows."

Toryrd had heard enough. It was clear to him; this had been a setup.

"Now!" He yelled, his call echoing through the woods.

Nothing happened.

"You thought you could hide troops in the shadows? We have hidden within the darkness for centuries, whelp. Your men breath so loud we could have stabbed him with our eyes closed."

He approached the man reaching on instinct for his ax but remembering that they had forgotten weapons to make their cover as emissaries convincing.

The Dunmer leered over him, nose to nose, and spoke in a deadly whisper.

"Ride hard for your petty fortress. Tell Isran that the gloves are off and that we- _I_ will have my revenge. And don't you worry about your friend here, he will be… comfortable, with us." He said with a smirk as an arrow pierced Jolar through the head, causing him to slump forward and stain the table red with his blood.

"Run along now, before I degree that your severed head would send a better message."

* * *

The man fled wailing like a goat taken to slaughter, causing Dominus's murderous laughter to echo off the mountains.

It was only for a short time, however, as he ceased laughing when the sound of hooves were well out of his enhanced earshot and let his frown return.

He snapped, and the Crimson Scars melted from the shadows, setting about disposing of the bodies of the dead Dawnguard.

With a nod, he permitted his guardsmen to aid them in their toils.

Dominus strode over to the table absentmindedly and took a small folded piece of parchment from the innermost pocket of his robes.

He had not lied.

He had written a peace accord, to be delivered to the Dawnguard once Riften had been seized. A guarantee of clemency, if they were to instead focus their humorously limited efforts to the various Clans outside of Skyrim.

After all, if Vampire hunters prowled every province _except_ Skyrim, then Dominus's dream of a Vampire Province would be complete.

He poured wine over his gloves, his anger growing.

Then they had to go and burn his fucking house and kill his daughter.

He lit the folded treaty on fire from a candle and burned the clawed gloves.

The gloves were off. It was time for Skyrim to taste his revenge.

It was time, for all of Skyrim to burn.

* * *

 _OK, it has been an age since I did this I know I know, but its here sorry guys. I will be working on this a bit more along with The General, as I am pushing through The Citadel Ark. BTW, if you can, vote for a poll I made on a series of chapters in that story if you follow it. Anywho, good reading everyone! -Cloaked Writer._


	14. Chapter 14: The Lord's Wrath

_Aight got the next bit. Im thinking about blazing through this before I work on Clone General any more just to get this out of the way, maybe today and tommorow. Also, name change as that chould be obvious as I am ARH writer now haha. Anywho enjoy Dominus's Wrath._

* * *

 _ **~Loredas, 1st of Hearthfire, Siege of Windhelm, Eastmarch, 4E 203~**_

Dominus stood upon a hill, watching the siege while a pair of Dov flanked him on either side as waves of Draugr fired burning and wailing rounds over the walls, lighting the houses like small fires of matchwood. The Vampire looked to his left, locking eyes with the Crimson Dragon.

"Odahviing, I have a task for you."

"Tinvaak, speak Dovahkiin."

"Fly to Riften, and assess if it has been destroyed by my forces. If it is ash, return and inform me. If it still stands, torch it to the best of your ability; I do not want to see you harmed."

"Moorus, Laughable, Dovahkiin. Their petty arrows and swords could not hope to scratch the superior hide of a Dovah."

"Of course. Paaz Ven, Odahviing."

"Paaz Ven, Dovahkiin."

And with a mighty roar that echoed to the eastern mountains, Odahviing took to the skies and made good time south, to Riften.

"Durnehviir, are you prepared to take to battle once again?"

"Geh, Qahnaarin. I see you have used my ancient strovodinok stone, and the wisdom of the Dwemer to good use; you are truly worthy of the title Konahrik."

"You flatter me, Durnehviir." Dominus mused, casting a half smile and a sidelong glance to the ancient and decaying dragon.

Age had not been kind on Durnehviir.

Once it had been easy to call him rotting, befitting his former life as a Dovah of the art of Stovodinok, Necromancy, but what skin that was not protected by the Soul Cairn had rotted away in his time on Nirn again, leading to a more skeletal appearance than of one that was undead.

"Are you ready?" The Dunmer asked.

"At your command, Qahnaarin."

A nod was all that was needed.

With a mighty roar, the undead dragon took to the skies and signaled the besieging army to rush the gates as a gout of flame broke open the doors to the ancient City of Kings. Durnehviir let out a mighty shout, and by his summons, dead spirits entered the city from the land of the dead and began to shred the defenders.

Dominus's siege towers constructed by his army from the north made use of this destruction to dock at the relatively undefended walls and allow nearly four companies of undead and hollow eyed Draugr to storm the now empty grey quarter and slay any guards found there.

However, Dominus's gaze was taken, by a distortion. A loud bellow that bent the air.

A shout.

Ulfric Stormcloak, leader and namesake of the Stormcloak Rebellion and Kingslayer of the High King of Skyrim, Torygg the First, had entered the battle with his chief commanders.

Dominus was intrigued, and with a thought, he ceased the small armies advance in the city as he rode forward into the city.

However, he was not so much a fool - or as the Nords would say, 'honorable' - to allow his forces stand stoically while they were cut down, so he ordered them to defend themselves.

If attacked, of course.

The horde of the dead parted for Dominus astride the skeletal undead horse Arvak, he approached Ulfric Stormcloak.

"You, Grey Skin tyrant! You dare stand on the ground Ysgramor once stood upon? You are not worthy to stand on the earth where he once pissed! Face me!"

Dominus's fiery eyes narrowed, but he nodded and dismounted his steed.

As he turned, he saw Ulfric rear his head; about to try to shatter the Elf-like he bellowed down the High King.

But Ulfric was fighting another speaker of the voice, not a boy-king.

Dominus spoke in the dragon tongue faster than the failed Greybeard.

"Rii-Vaaz-Zol!"

Ulfric was blasted back by the purple energy of the Soul Tear shout, coughing and spluttering, as alas he seemed too strong to be shouted down.

Dominus simply took his Cudgel and hit him across the temple, splitting the skull and killing the Jarl of Eastmarch.

With the Bear of Markarth slain, he turned his eyes to the returning form of Odahviing as his troops rounded up and slaughtered any of the remaining soldiers and imprisoning the surviving civilians.

"Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin. Riften lays in ashes."

"Thank you. You are dismissed, the both of you." He said, both to the flying form of the crimson Dovah to the perched and decaying form of the Necromantic Dovah.

The City of Kings was now a graveyard, and Riften was now ash.

A shame the Argonians were now serving as Thralls, instead of settling the ashes to build a new settlement as the Dunmer of the Grey Quarter had, but they had forced his hand. The war needed to be completed.

And now, with the Stormcloaks out of the way, he could now focus on the feeble Dawnguard, and his revenge against Isran.

* * *

 _ **~Tirdas, 11th of Hearthfire, Fort Dawnguard, The Rift, 4E 203~**_

It had been just a few days since they had heard the news; Riften engulfed in flames, Ulfric shouted down as he shouted down the High King Torygg…

The entire Dawnguard was on edge.

None more so than Herti and her partner, assigned to guard duty at the valley mouth.

It was a great defensive and tactical move, building the fort in the secluded valley; especially as it was first intended as a prison, and what better place to put a prison but somewhere where people do not know where it is? However, as a military installation, there was a flaw.

The small cavern was the only way in, and the only way out. If the Vampires discovered them, which they probably wouldn't, then they could simple engineer a rock slide over the mouth of the cavern, and they would promptly starve, along with the small community of refugees they had amassed.

And thus, it was crucial that they had at least _some_ guards over by the mouth of the cave.

Just the two of them. Alone. Against whatever horde was out there, led by a vengeful Vampire lord that now ruled almost all of Skyrim, through legitimate means.

She remembered when Toryrd had ridden his horse to exhaustion getting back from the meeting with the Vampire at the Elf's old home, alone.

By the Nine, a whole company of archers with good crossbows…

And his cryptic message; the gloves were off.

Suddenly, her partner heard movement and they both raised their crossbows, the metal arms bent and the bolt straining to be set free-

Only to see a rabbit crawl from the brush and scratch behind its ear with a hind leg.

"You must be getting jumpy." Herti teased her partner, who only replied with a grunt.

It was then that she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder as every nerve in her body tensed as she fell to the ground, frozen and screaming through clenched jaws at the pain. Her partner reared back in surprise, rushing forward before raising his own crossbow to return fire before he too was shot with one of the paralyzing arrows.

Her blood ran cold as she saw dozens of shadows move forward from the cave and surrounding brush and move as silent as ghosts toward the fort, while a pair of dark figures painfully adjusted their tense limbs and tied their hands behind the pack and bound their feet together with chains.

They were under attack.

And she could do nothing to warn her comrades.

* * *

aaaaand The Dawnguard fall by an assassins poisoned dart. What will Dominus do in retribution? Fair warning, next chapter is a bit graphic with scenes of torture, just saying. -A.R.H.


	15. Chapter 15: The Lord's Revenge

**DISCLAIMER: THIS GOT TORTURE IN IT IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THAT SKIP TO THE END BIT FOR SUMMARY OF CHAPTER SO U CAN MOVE ONE WITH YOUR LIFE** _that said enjoy Dominus's revenge._

* * *

 _ **~Fredas, 14th of Hearthfire, Dawnguard Castle, The Rift, 4E 203~**_

Isran licked his chapped lips, flexing the dead weights of his hands in their shackles as he looked down at the horrific display set out before him.

 _His_ Fortress, his time and labor, _his_ dream, had been snuffed out.

He had summoned all of his agents throughout Skyrim in order to strengthen the defenses against this, to prevent the Draugr invading the ancient and noble structure.

But he never expected The Dark Brotherhood - or a pale imitation of them at least - to join forces with a suddenly opportunistic Thieves Guild in paralyzing and imprisoning his guards before that cursed bastard and his army moved in and occupied the place.

He cast a short glance at his foe, his rival.

Lord Dominus, as his servants called him, lounged in a high backed wooden chair like a throne as he sat beside Isran, hanging from chains without a shred of clothing to hide his pride or keep him warm.

The Dark Elf swirled a goblet from their own kitchen and drank blood from an ewer sitting on a table between them; the blood likely harvested from those below.

His grand hallway had been transformed into a gladiatorial arena; half-starved men and women in nothing more than rags fought one another with wooden staffs, beating one another until the other gave in.

As the former Grandmaster of the mighty order of the Dawnguard looked on, he saw one of his men attempt to spare his comrade, before he was roughly dragged aside by a cruel Draugr in heavy armor and wielding a hatchet.

The man's howls roared louder than the murmured moans and groans of pain from the other member of the Dawnguard that were unlucky enough to be chosen that day.

One severed thumb sent to the presser later, and no other prisoners showed their comrades clemency.

"You see, Isran?" The Vampire said, gesturing down as one woman struck a blow hard enough to shatter bone on an old Orcish warrior.

"Men and women, are greedy creatures. They think only for themselves, to their immediate future. The Draugr were once great warriors and make an overwhelming force to be sure, but with their numbers _and_ with fighting staffs?"  
He took another drink as the corpse of the man was dragged away by other Dawnguard and a new one took his place.

"They could overthrow them and, in theory, slay me. But they do not; because they are selfish. They know that they are not brave enough to give their lives so others could live, so they are content to slay others instead." He finished as he took yet another sip of his goblet.

Isran did not respond.

"Come now, Isran. I am being generous, after all. I have given you a remarkable amount of clemency for the scope of your actions-"

"Of _my_ actions? Don't make me laugh. Ever since the _Dragonborn_ left to that cursed cave, deaths increased. Murders, people showing up dead and drained on the road, with organized attacks against towns and cities. Then, your campaign cost hundreds of lives! You butchered the Imperial Legion, sacked the City of Kings, and razed Riften to the ground! You are the one who deserves to be in chains like the beast you are, wretch!"

He spat, the glob of spit landing in the Elf's drink.

The Vampire sighed, snapping his pale fingers and a skeletal servant seemingly materialized out of the shadows to take it from him.

"Then let me inform you _why_ you are in those chains, Isran." He said, turning in his seat and facing the Redguard.

"Your Dawnguard's cause is noble and just, that cannot be denied. Yet look to your methods. Assassinating Bards and travelers, deceiving members of the various Jarl's courts. And in your later months, attacking those who you _perceived_ to be Vampires in society, leading to those who study at night or prefer evening walks to die."

Isran's mouth opened, then closed again.

How, did this undead _thing,_ know every mistake ever done by his men?

The Elf laughed.

"As the Lady of Decay once said, 'if you have something you wish to know, ask the beggars!'. Nearly every city has had one of my agents watching every move, and every mistake, you have ever made."

The laugh trailed off, however, and the Vampire seemed… Sad, if the monsters could have feelings of course, as he looked back down at the dueling agents.

"But that is not the reason why I torched those cities, nor is it the reason I have your men suffering."

He turned back to Isran, his eyes brimming with rage.

"You attacked my family, _you killed my daughter!_ "

Isran blinked.

And he remembered.

A report of a rather… ferocious young girl, not even in her teens yet, who was residing in the house that their agents had pointed out, and that attacked their troops as they attempted to engage. They had killed her, of course, burning the body thinking she was just another Thrawl that they did not wish for the Vampire to resurrect.

However, his men did - offhandedly, admittedly - mention something odd she had said; some gibberish about her father.

Isran looked to the enraged Elf with fresh horror.

He had killed…

"Yes." The Elf said with savage emphasis.

"You killed not only an innocent, but your order to kill her is what led to this."

He rested his head on his folded hands as he watched yet another staff crack a skull and kill another Dawnguard.

"I admired you once, Isran. In fact, I had hoped to spare your organization. We were, after all, of similar intentions. You wanted Vampires to cease preying on the people, I wanted all Vampires to have a single place they could call home."

He cast a sidelong glance.

"Maybe push you out into Morrowind, or High Rock."

The Elf let out a laugh before leaning back, snapping his fingers twice and a fresh goblet was brought to him.

"Though, I am a Vampire. And you would _never_ turn down the chance to attack a Vampire, would you? So I am afraid I will keep you here."

"Oh don't worry!" He said suddenly, as a staff broke over the back of a Dawnguard soldier.

"I will not subject you to the fate of your men, oh no. Not even the fate of your commanders and inner circle."

He let out a cruel laugh, one of true evil and malice.

For though Lord Dominus was often equated to a tamed Dragon, he still had tooth and claw to rend Isran's flesh in revenge for his daughter's death.

* * *

 _ **~Tirdas, 18th of Hearthfire, Dawnguard Castle, The Rift, 4E 203~**_

Garan was not an easily disturbed creature. Such discomforts were mortal worries; unnecessary to be given even a stray thought in the immortal mind of a Vampire.

But the Dunmer Advisor was briefly taken aback at the grim sight that was now Fort Dawnguard.

Former civilians - refugees from Riften and those who had sheltered within Dayspring Canyon - were ragged and dead-eyed, their clothes turned to rags and used as enslaved labor for the fortresses cruel instruments; Dwemer in style but iron and ferociously cruel in practice.

Noon led to a duel in the main lobby of the Fortress, where two members of the cattle were chosen at random and given wooden staves; doomed to fight one another until the one could fight no longer.

This game, an Orcish man was victorious over a Redguard man; his arms broken.

After the game, they returned to their work manning that complex machine that appeared Dwarven in style yet clearly Vampyric in nature.

The wailing and clearly terrified Redguard were dragged to the top of the machine, kicking and waving the dead weights of his broken limbs as he was tossed into a great set of gears and spinning blades; his body crushed and ground to meal amid his groans.

The shattered shards of bones and ragged strips of flesh were further processed and shredded until they were put onto a great press - worked by the slaves - to squeeze blood through a linen filter to be collected in great vats that once held ale; now holding blood to be put into bottles.

"Ah, Garan!"

The Elf turned and spied his Lord striding towards him.

"Welcome to our castle of vice!" He said with dark glee, gesturing to the empty-eyed men and mer pushing the presses and stoking the steam fire generators stolen from Dwemer ruins.

"A fascinating result, my Lord…" Garan said passively, unsure what to think of the dark creation and the fate of the Vampire Hunters.

Lord Dominus must have seen the look of indecision on his fellow Vampire's face, for his expression of glee fell and he put a hand on Garan's shoulder.

"These vermin deserve nothing less than this. They will suffer for those they have killed and those they have endangered. But, they were pawns of their masters, and will be killed relatively quickly in comparison to them."

The Dunmer advisor lifted his gaze to his Lord.

"What fate do you have planned for their leaders?"

Dominus flashed a wicked smile and gestured with his other hand towards the stairs.

"Allow me to show you, brother."

Gunmar had died befitting of his role of Beastmaster; every bone in his arms and legs broken with tongs, doused in human blood from the machine, and left to be torn to pieces by his starved trolls and - if anything was left - feed the rest to the dogs. A waste of blood, to be sure; a human's worth of blood fed to _beasts_ , instead of feeding them the bone and gristle of the machine. But, it was poetic nonetheless.

The Breton tinker Sorine Jurard was given a similarly poetic death, but one that was less… wasteful. A falling blade contraption constructed by the Dwemer of Blackreach was used to sever pieces of her body before hot blades of iron were used to cauterize the wounds to prevent her from bleeding out as the severed parts and parts of limbs were sent to the machine.

Until finally, she was not but a torso sent screaming into the gears.

Florentius Baenius, the eccentric and insane "Priest" of Arkay, the Aedra of Death, was to have a… unique punishment planned for him.

Legs removed at the knees, forced to crawl as he tried with shattered hands to heal those around him, followed by a Draugr whose sole purpose was to shatter his hands should he heal himself to wield a blade. He would be the second to last of the members to perish.

After Isran of course.

Oh, the pain planned for Isran…

* * *

 _ **~Turdas, 20th of Hearthfire, Dawnguard Castle, The Rift, 4E 203~**_

Isran's head drooped as his licked his cracking lips.

He had been hanging suspended on a wooden board for… by Stendarr, he didn't know _how_ long he had been held there.

There was a time when he had been given… special treatment, observing the torture of his partners from above; watching as they were slain either in the pit or in disgustingly cruel ways.

However, his followers were all but dead, save for the minor warriors and archers that served in the militia and the refugees, he was all that remained of the high command.

And Dominus seemed to know that as he approached.

The knife was Elvish, enchanted with some dark spell, and rang in the warm air as it was drawn from its sheath; the nearly golden blade glancing off the intense candlelight that lit the room like the center of the sun; ironic that a Vampire would seek to deprive the man of sleep at his own expense.

Lowering his hanging prison with the aid of a Draugr, he was positioned so he was laying down, at the mercy of the Dark Lord. The poisoned needle to the wrist led to his entire arm seemingly to grow… hypersensitive, yet an unmovable dead weight as his shoulder was strapped to the board and his wrist was pulled free.

The knife made several deep, harsh gashes that seemed to sear the bone, the point of the blade plucking his knuckles like lute strings.

Then, he drove several pinches of salt into the open wound, before heating his knife in a small brazier fire while Dominus seemed to listen calmly to the music of Isran's shrieks of pain and anguish as they echoed throughout the Fortress.

The torture for that night ended, when Dominus drove the now glowing Elven dagger into the second knuckle of the finger, severing it and cauterizing the wound.

Isran's labored groans slowed as he regained control of his arm after it was shackled back to the wooden board; the severed finger set aside for the Draugr to press.

And so it went, night after night. The sleep of the Dawnguard slaves still surviving haunted by the pained howls of their once fearless leader as he was tortured for a crime they did not know he committed.

And that was when Dominus found something unexpected.

His observations on the humans, nay the _mortals_ , had been wrong.

Some did hold a sense of heart and camaraderie.

Three ragged warriors, welding wooden staves sharpened to points, crept through the darkness.

They would have escaped or perhaps freed their leader if Dominus had not chosen that moment to take an evening stroll.

The three figures lunged for Dominus who, as a great fighter, managed to parry nearly every strike, receiving a ragged scrape across his bare hand as one thrust his weapon towards him and he sloppily countered it with his open hand.

A bad move.

But a sobering one; desperation in these humans could breed…

He swiped his fist across the face of one, sending him sprawling into the wall while catching the staff of another and shattering it to splinters with his mighty grip, before strangling the final assailants until they lost consciousness.

* * *

 _ **~Morndas, 24th of Hearthfire, Dawnguard Castle, The Rift, 4E 203~**_

The morning, was different.

Isran had been given… good food, for the first time his torture had started.

Hot meat, warm bread baked in _an oven_! Gods, it felt like an era since he had eaten something as plain as _bread_ and felt happy.

But, his joy was not just to him. It was shared with the prisoners.

They were given an extra rasher of cooked meat of some kind but instructed not to eat it until after their Master made an announcement.

And Dominus appeared beside the shackled Isran, with three bound and gagged prisoners alongside him.

Without warning he swung his cuddle like a sword and all but split the skull of one of the slaves open; red gore showering down on the servants as he fell over the spiked railing; his clothes becoming shredded on the way down as he collapsed in a heap with his neck and limbs at an awkward angle.

"These three not only assassinated two of your overseers while you slept but attempted to murder their rightful owner: me!" He said, swinging his cudgel again to make contact with the left arm of the slave closes to him.

Isran could hear the bone crack before he too was tossed over the railing and landed in a crumpled heap; alive but only just.

"Enjoy your meal; savor it. For because of these three you will never taste mean so juicy, fruit so sweet, milk so fresh. You will suffer, for the actions of your _comrades_."

Dominus then used his staff to shove the man away from the railing to be escorted down to work the machines.

A worse punishment, than dying at the hands of a Vampire: dying at the hands of your allies in your sleep for trying to kill a Vampire.

Isran's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp pain across the cheek, along with something wet running down his face.

"You will suffer similar pains, Isran. For not only have you attempted to attack my family you have attempted to murder _me._ Enjoy your wind and your ale; your break and your stew. You will not taste anything like it again."

* * *

 _ **~Loredas, 6th of Frostfall, Fredas, Dawnguard Castle, The Rift, 4E 203~**_

Dominus had not made an idle threat.

Any food left in the castle was taken by the wagon load out of the newly expanded and fortified cave entrance to the neighboring towns and cities to feed the _true_ thralls, the ones for his court.

The thralls were fed the same shredded mushy byproduct of the dreaded machine that was fed to the trolls and vicious wolf-hounds, compacted and eaten as a porridge with a small amount of blood to make it a liquid.

They would sacrifice their ideals or starve.

And in their desperation, their inedible ideals were cast aside.

All, including - to his great shame - Isran.

However, the torture continued for the damned Redguard.

In the several days, he had lost all of his digits to Dominus's torture, leaving him with only a scarred thumb and three toes, but he doubted that he would keep them for long.

And he was right, as Dominus entered this time, with an alien weapon. The crude contraption was fashioned from sharpened bones and teeth, bound together with leather and reeds: a Forsworn Blade.

Again with the needle poison, and again with his arm.

However much to his incredible agony, the Vampire broke his arm backwards at the elbow and then began to saw with the blunt weapon.

It took nearly two hours, Isran all but blacking out from the pain, only to be woken by a harsh splash to the face of icy water before the pain began again.

His arm was cauterized the bone charred leaving Isran with fresh pain to meditate on as he was again strung up and left to hang, moaning pitifully at his suffering to Dominus's indifferent laughter.

Three days later, and he was down to his biceps and thighs, the healing magic given to him by some enthralled mage the only thing keeping him alive as he healed from the pain. When Dominus took him to his final torture.

Left alone in the woods of the Rift, smelling of blood, near a Wolf's den.

Dominus smiled as he heard the Redguard's screams go quiet, but soon frowned.

And his frown turned into sobbs.

For he had realized the day.

The day, 9th of Frostfall.

The day he had adopted Sofie. The day the man who had ultimately been responsible for her death, was killed.

He dismissed all his aids but Garran, ordering the remaining Dawnguard be cast into the machine alive, as he sat with his kinsman in a dark corner of the Fortress.

"My Lord?" Garran asked, putting a gloved hand on his master's shoulder.

"She never had a birthday party before I took her in, did I tell you that?" the mighty Vampire Lord said solemnly.

"Her mother died when she was a babe, and her father was too drunk to remember when she was born. When he ran out of drinking money, he went and joined the Stormcloaks for coin and never came back. When I took her in, she remembered the day. And we celebrated it as her birthday. The day she entered our lives." He said, his amber eyes now glistening with tears as they feel freely down his face."

Garran was unsure of what he could say, or if anything the immortal childless undead being could comfort his Lord, so he simply allowed him to cry and regail him with memories of his lost child.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Harkon had ever felt like that about Lady Serana, and could not help but feel a small twinge of pride to his Lord, for he had not yet fallen so deep into the pit of power to scorn emotion.

He cried for some time, before Garran spoke.

"If I may, my Lord, we have crushed all resistance to your rule and you now rule nearly all of Skyrim unopposed with the backing of the Empire and the Dominion. We need to solidify your position, and begin preparations for any attacker."

Dominus looked up, now calm from his lapse into sorrow and alert.

"Attackers? Attacked by whom?"

Garran fidgeted slightly.

"One member of the Dawnguard was… missing, from their number my Lord. A coward, if reports are to be understood. He will likely attempt to rally one of the Bandit Clans to the West and get murdered in his sleep for his trouble."

Dominus was silent for a moment.

"Who survived the purge, Garran?" He asked, standing up and leaning on his cudgel.

"Agmaer, a Nord farmer who joined the Dawnguard. He has attempted to attack our operations with admirable tenacity for some time, but has failed and fled every time, my Lord."

Dominus chuckled lightly.

"If he is all that remains, than our reach is unchallenged. Now, I must head to Whiterun to organize the Moot to crown myself High King, and to clench my fist across all of Skyrim."

Garran was silent a moment as he followed his lord from the room into the halls echoing with the dying creams and the grinding of the machine.

"My Lord, forgive my curiosity, but you never mentioned what your plan was _after_ you seized Skyrim. I do not wish to assume, but are you to simply… rule a kingdom of the Herd for all eternity?"

Dominus smiled tightly.

"That, and so much more." He said as he opened the great doors to let in a cool breeze of mountain air.

* * *

 **summary for those who skipped (prob not alot but oh well): dominus kills dawnguard via torture and learns one got away before going to crown himself king.** _Aight this took a bit of time, and man is it dark. This kind of stuff makes me want to write fluffy stories, jesus. Anyways, next chapter we get to see how he convinced al the different guilds to either join him or stay quiet..._


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